


Embers & Ashes

by poeticjustice22



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aurors, Banter, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Canon Related, Canonical Character Death, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Dark Magic, Developing Relationship, Explicit Language, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Head Girl Ginny Weasley, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, Implied/Referenced Torture, Morally Ambiguous Character, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Rare Pairings, Rating May Change, References to Depression, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Substance Abuse, Very Very Slow Burn, Work In Progress, i feel their relationship is too complex to pin down, strangers or enemies to reluctant allies to something else?, will they won't they
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 13:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 143,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20309971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticjustice22/pseuds/poeticjustice22
Summary: "Yeah, Zabini, because you're so talented… at posing...".After the war, Ginny returns for her final year as Head Girl at a reformed Hogwarts, beginning with an unexpected encounter with a certain dark-skinned Slytherin in the Prefects' Bathroom. An encounter which leaves them both highly confused and tense.When dark forces reappear and mysterious newcomers arrive at the school, Ginny and Blaise find themselves continuously thrown together over the span of a year - much to their own chagrin. Finally they come to an accord: Since they're in this mess together, they might as well work together to get out of it. Only, they have no idea what they're getting themselves into...(Cross-posted on FanFiction.Net)





	1. A fresh start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: None of JK Rowling's characters belong to me, sadly. I'm just a humble fan; curious to explore the post-war times of the HP universe and some of its minor characters. ;)
> 
> Fair warning: Have patience with me. I have no idea how long this fic will be or how long it will take me to finish it. My muse comes and goes, but I'm rather determined to see this thing through. Also, I'm somewhat of a perfectionist when it comes to my story writing, so revisions will occur every now and then (although nothing major).
> 
> Anyways. I hope very much that you, dear readers, will enjoy this story.

* * *

Ginny had never expected McGonagall to give over the title of Head Girl to her.

Going back to Hogwarts for her seventh year had seemed so out of place after the war in the first place, and yet, it made sense somehow.

It was a sight for sore eyes to see the castle still standing despite the ruins still being mended. The familiarity of the place remained, but now it seemed somewhat stripped, raw; an eerie sense of the death and darkness that had happened here only months ago still hanging over the once so proud and magnificent castle. Everyone was trying their best to find their places again and get everyone else accustomed to the daily matters and running of a school.

Hermione had returned, too, to finish her belated last year - and her NEWTs, of course. Ron or Harry had decided not to return but begun in Auror training, granted by the new Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, as it only seemed natural given their accomplishments during the war.

Ginny envied the boys, since she never was very academic but more interested in more physical accomplishments, especially Quidditch. But she _had_ missed training at Hogwarts and knew her mum would never forgive her if she quit the last year of her education to go and seek out Professional Quidditch teams. Not yet, at least.

She and Harry had mended things since their break-up but since he now lived in London and was fully occupied with his Auror training, while she had come back to stay at Hogwarts, they had had little time to see each other. Just before the school year started, they had briefly met and talked in a café in downtown London.

'_I wish it could be different, Ginny,' Harry had said in a sorrowful tone. 'I really do. I love you, but we're in two different places in our lives right now and it would be difficult to establish a permanent relationship like this. My job doesn't allow me to travel that often to that part any of Scotland and though you could come and visit me in the weekends and holidays, I'm most likely not at home as much as I would have liked to spent time with you. I wouldn't wish that upon you. The Auror training … It's tough; an intensive program.' He had picked up her hand and squeezed it affectionately, making Ginny's eyes water. 'Oh, Ginny, I wish it could be different!'_

_She had nodded, crestfallen. 'I know, Harry. I know. I wish so, too.'_

They had stood and he had given her a soft kiss that screamed of goodbye, then they had hugged and kissed each other's cheeks. They quickly parted, _too_ quickly, as he was to return to the Auror office (of course) and she gave a small wave which he returned with a sad smile before disappearing around the corner of the street.

At home, she had cried hard for the first time in a long time since Fred's death. So much that even her mum couldn't console her. It was inevitable, after all. Not every school couple ended up together.

Soon, she became desperate for something to do other than crying and despairing that her childhood love had left her.

Initially, she wasn't entirely eager to return to Hogwarts, but everything at the Burrow was somehow too familiar; and for the first time in her life too suffocating, reminding her painfully of the hole Fred had left. Her brothers dispatched quickly as well; Ron to his Auror training in London, George back to their, no _his,_ shop in Diagon Alley, Charlie back to Romania and his dragons, Bill and Fleur back to the Shell Cottage and Percy occupied with his new position in the Ministry of Magic under Shacklebolt. Her parents tried to lift her spirits as always but even _they_ couldn't get the gloomy look off their faces after Fred's death.

She needed to start afresh, finish school and zoom in on her goal of joining professional Quidditch, contemplating teams such as the Holyhead Harpies. She missed her friends as well; Luna, Neville, Dean, Seamus, Katie, even the Patil twins' incessant gossiping. She hoped to see her favorite teachers in spirits again, despite everything, and gradually gotten used the strange idea of once again roaming the so familiar, yet now war-ridden halls of the school. Yes, she certainly looked forward to normalcy in the Wizarding world.

Then McGonagall came and dropped the Head Girl bomb on her! Well, she certainly hadn't seen this one coming.

Yet, Ginny surprised herself by accepting the Head Girl position from McGonagall, and though she initially wanted to hit herself in the head for taking on extra academic work, she eventually realized she didn't mind the chores that much. She found herself to be a natural leader during the D.A.-years and was respected and well-liked among all she knew.

She didn't have any trouble with the new, young students either who seemed to admire her all the more for having partaken in taking down Voldemort and his followers, though it took some time before she could fully verbalize to those wide-eyed, small heads looking expectantly up at her what had happened on the very same grounds only months ago. Now she had accepted her role in this significant piece of Wizarding History and, in time, could distance herself from it somewhat without getting teary-eyed or starting rambling. She liked teaching the kids to learn from such experiences and not to hate, while she in return matured and learned to get less flipped if a kid inquired to a particular tender subject from the past.

There were so many difficult matters to relay, after all, yet it helped that the old Houses - under the supervision of McGonagall, the new Headmistress of Hogwarts – had been dismantled indefinitely in attempts to deter any lingering or further antagonism between them, though that was easier said than done, of course. However, most students actually put on an effort into not riling each other in the disgusting ways that so often followed a period of war. If any, the Pureblooded Slytherins who'd had direct or indirect affiliations (or even none at all) to any former Death Eaters or implemented Pureblood elitism prior to the battle bore most of the brunt. However, McGonagall saw it as utmost priority to inform of the consequences of war and made sure the new structures of the school wouldn't lead to the same disunity.

The children were initially sorted according to academic interests and aspirations in four broad fractions; first tentatively in case they changed their minds, later on more permanently. The fractions were, so far, divided into four _new_, major Houses: _Politics and Law_, _Environment and Healing_, _Teaching and Scholastic Studies_, and, lastly, _Quidditch and Artistic Aspirations_. They, too, were divided into colors (keeping the old ones); blue/bronze, green/silver, yellow/black and red/gold, respectively, whereas their mascots were transformed into a griffin, a frog, a lynx, and a dragon.

Ginny was pleased to be able to put on her red and golden colors once again but didn't mind the other changes in the least. It was a fresh start, after all.

Admittedly, the new 'House' titles didn't have quite the same pull (she'd heard students call them 'lame' several times) as the former, prideful name-bearers but that was done namely in order to expel any old, lingering connotations to exactly _those_ before-mentioned name-bearers. The latter were far from forgotten, however, but were common subjects taught in the History of Magic class; critically relaying everything from their origins to their positive as well as negative influences during time.

The Head Boys and Girls along with the Prefects were selected in the same numbers as before, but once again sorted according to academic aspiration. The older students, including herself she had to admit, still had trouble getting rid of the old titles as Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherins, respectively, and they slipped every now and then around each other, but did their best to not enforce them on the new students.

Hermione had naturally been offered the Head Girl position for her new House – _Politics and Law_ – as well, but to Ginny's utter surprise she had declined! She claimed she had enough on her plate as it was, spending most of her time doing work for the Ministry as a part of an internship in her seventh year and her hopes of getting a career within the Ministry afterwards. Ginny was surprised, to say the least, to see her old friend actually taking her workload down a notch, since the Hermione she knew would never have given up any of her responsibilities even though it meant extra work, less sleep, more stress, dependence on the Time Turner and so on. But it also seemed like it would be something a more mature, post-war Hermione would do.

She and Ron were in somewhat the same situation as Ginny and Harry. They were each dedicating their time to their future careers and whatever had happened during the war was postponed until they had gotten their lives back on track it seemed. Hermione didn't talk about this 'silent agreement' between them, and though Ginny knew her brother was perhaps the _most_ adamant to get a relationship going with Hermione, she also knew he would back down if he sensed Hermione needed time to dedicate her mind to her career for the time being. They were all still affected by the war and probably would be for a long time.

Some scars just don't go away.

Yes, for once, Ginny was certainly hoping for a last, quiet, uneventful year at Hogwarts, but really, who was she kidding?


	2. The Prefects' Bathroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to let Blaise keep his position in Quidditch as seen on screen, though it doesn't happen in the books, in order to give Blaise and Ginny more in common.

If there was anything Ginny Weasley loved – after a good, hard work-out on the Quidditch field – it was a nice soak in a hot bathtub. Just laying back in scented, soapy water, spooling away the sweat and grime and loosening up sore muscles.

At the moment, Ginny found herself taking full advantage of her status as Head Girl by enjoying and prolonging a relaxing bath in the Prefects' Bathroom, which was now filled with steam and bubbles. It was a late Sunday afternoon, the sleepiest time of Hogwarts, and she had just finished her usual training on the field. Her skin was buzzing from the warming soak of the water, smelling flowery from the bath salt she had put in, as she stood and wrapped a towel around herself.

Humming with content she went to the mirror, unpinning her hair from the practical bun she had made on the top of head, when she suddenly spotted something – or rather _someone _moving behind her in the mirror. Her eyes widened as she realized she wasn't _entirely_ alone, after all.

Whipping around to face the intruder, she gasped when she came face to face with none other than a naked Blaise Zabini, former Slytherin and best mate to that ferret Malfoy!

Well, _half_-naked; he was clad in a towel, wrapped around his lean hips, but still...

She opened her mouth in shock, staring at him as he stared back equally astounded (though he kept it less flabbergasted), clearly not expecting to have had company as well.

About to tell him off and shout at him to get out, she suddenly remembered why he was able to be in there in the first place (since only Prefects and Quidditch captains knew the password to the Bathroom, though that certainly wouldn't be any hindrance for a _Slytherin_): Zabini had taken the post as one of the Prefects when they were all first elected at the beginning of the year!

She remembered having wondered why the older wizard had returned at all and scoffed at the thought of the lazy Slytherin hassling students around and pulling extra chores, since he always seemed as such a cold-hearted, haughty prick who couldn't be bothered with anyone or anything. Less pompous and mouthy than Malfoy and more enigmatic, but she'd been all the more suspicious of him because of that and thus found all the more reason for keeping a distance. She knew very little about him, besides the basic gossip about his mother's army of dead husbands and the usual gossip among the girls – even the Gryffindors! – of his apparently impressive, sexual prowess. She'd scoffed even louder at that fact. Of course, leave it to the cold, vain, Pureblood supremacist and Slytherin snake to be totally undiscriminating and advantageous when it came to the opposite sex who, for some reason, threw themselves at him. She bet he'd even taken Muggle-born students to his bed every now and then.

However, Ginny had never denied the fact that the Slytherin boy was good looking. _Beyond_ good looking. And he knew it. He was much too handsome for his own good, and once she had even let him know just _how_ vain he seemed, much to his displeasure. She had just never really bothered more than that, having been enamored with a certain, bespectacled, shaggy-haired wizard most of her school years. OK, she'd dated Michael Corner and Dean as well, but you can't blame a girl for taking the chances she gets (no parallel to Zabini _whatsoever!_). She'd never shied away from sexual matters in the same stand-offish ways as Hermione or the seemingly oblivious ways as Luna. Nor had she taken a perverse pleasure in discussing boys and conquests like Lavender or the Patil twins. She'd had her fair share of experiences with boys but wasn't one to break down when things didn't continue (Harry was the exception to this) or brag about her conquests.

Now, admittedly, she had never been faced with Zabini up close or as 'intimately' as right in this moment. As she stared at him from across the damp bathroom, she couldn't help letting her gaze take in his entire form, painfully aware of his state of undress (not to speak of her own). His dark skin had already started to perspire in the sauna-like atmosphere, glistening in a way that only enhanced his magnificent contours. No denial the guy had all the right genes! The older Slytherin stood several inches taller than her - he was just as tall as Ron, Fred and George - his dark-skinned chest well-defined from Quidditch, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, long, lean legs and arms that came together for a perfect cover model of Witch Weekly. A closely cut, polished haircut matched his face; all carved lines and strong nose, high cheekbones, smooth skin, full lips and those infamously shrewd, slanted eyes that observed her so coldly and inscrutably.

"_Well_," he drawled, finally breaking the silence, smirking as if he had just caught her in the act (of bathing? Ogling?), while his eyes swept over her scarcely clad form, partly arrogantly, partly lewdly. "I see I'm not the only one who came here for some recreational alone-time. Guess we'll have to fight for the best spot, huh, Weasel?" His stance took a more relaxed pose, back to his usual bored swagger, one thump resting in the dangerously low edge of his towel (which caught her attention, much to her annoyance). She realized she still stood with her mouth open and quickly closed it, scowling at him.

"I didn't think anyone would come here this late in the afternoon on a Sunday." She huffed defensively, crossing her arms. "Why are _you_ here anyway, I might ask? Aren't you on duty?"

He lifted an eyebrow, sending her a cold glare. "Not that it is any of your business how I handle _my_ Prefect business, Red, and by the way, the bathroom is for _every_ Prefect at _any_ time. As it so happens, I've just returned from Quidditch training after you lot finished, I need a bath, and I'm a Prefect. No other _special_ rights here, no matter your 'war heroic status'," his voice tipped with sardonic vitriol.

Her jaw dropped. "I didn't say I just presumed privilege over the bathroom because of– ugh!" She bristled, balling her fists. _Insufferable Slytherins!_

He merely gave a smug tilt of his mouth at her riled up appearance, which irked her more. That and his state of undress which was way too distracting!

"No, I guess you were just hoping to get a glimpse of the goods. Not that I mind," he grinned devilishly at her, hooking both thumbs in the towel, provocatively jutting out his lean hips.

"_Please_!" she scoffed sarcastically. He truly was full of himself! If this was how he came on to girls, she wanted to laugh at his total and _pathetic_ lack of originality! Not that he was coming on to _her_…

Or was he?

She couldn't make him out as he eyed her with an indefinable expression then gave a bored shrug and turned towards the bath.

"Well, then, I guess I'll leave you to your business if you'll leave me to mine." He started towards the edge of the bath and before she knew it he had loosened the towel around his waist, baring his _entire_ naked back to her.

Her eyes practically jumped out of their sockets at his brazen behavior.

"What – what are you doing?" she spluttered and could only imagine the self-satisfactory grin forming on his face though she couldn't see it.

"Why, I'm taking a bath. I thought that was fairly obvious, witch," he spoke in a casual, typically Slytherin condescending manner, not yet looking at her. However, he didn't let go of the towel or descend into the water.

_What is he playing at?_

Ginny's eyes were unwillingly glued to his nude form in pure shock and despite her not being any virginal, frail, little Gryffindor, she still couldn't fathom why _she_ was the one to endure the Slytherin Sex God's little game.

Did she just say_ 'Sex God'?!_

She'd picked up _waaay_ too much of the Patil twins' gossip, apparently, and shook herself mentally, willing herself to tear her eyes from his confident nakedness in front of her.

"So… You're not joining me?"

She whirled her incensed gaze back to him, and he was now looking over his shoulder at her; his face painted in sinister mirth, reminding her of a cat toying with a mouse. She huffed, wheeling her back to him, not taking his bait, and proceeded to unpin her hair, aggressively so, trying to control her temper.

Being the only sister to six older brothers she was used to their teasing, potty mouths and sometimes overly self-conceited masculinity; making way for her to build up a quick, dry wit that matched even that of McGonagall's. However, this was a different situation. She tried to tell herself it wasn't, but of course it was. In matters of romance, she was used to being the assertive, bold one, while the boys were less brassy, not quite able to match her more zealous nature. She knew she could scare some people off with her confident personality and passionate opinions; her strong sense of loyalty surfacing every so often, and her emotions sometimes clouding her judgment. She had, however, often been approached by guys who had taken a fancy to her, but she rarely took any serious interest in them. Michael _certainly_ had been one of those instances. Dean, however, had been different. He had been sweet and level-headed; a long-time friend who had taken a position close to Harry's and the others during the war. However, her heart had always belonged to Harry and she couldn't give herself entirely to Dean. In the end, they had just been two hormonal teenagers who had taken an interest in each other and decided to fool around a bit. Whether or not they actually had crossed the line of seriousness wasn't something she'd had pondered further about once it was over. What was past was past. She had gotten together with Harry and her dream had come true. She and Dean continued to be friends. No hard feelings. That was how she liked it. She didn't like dancing around the bush or giving confusing signals. Oh, she didn't mind flirting, but she was usually just as willing a participant as her partner, knowing what to expect and what to give.

However, _now_, she was caught in a situation she'd never asked for, much less expected.

She had never in her life thought the cold Slytherin in front of her would ever deign her a look beyond mere disgust. And she never really had time to ponder much about the boy or form a bigger impression of him. She'd always thought of him as an arrogant, womanizing, Slytherin arse and that was _it_. And that may have been the error, she realized.

He confused the hell out of her right now, but still, she wasn't one to back down from a fight or come out the loser.

She turned back to him in defiance, eyeing him with narrowed eyes. She was relieved to see he had put on the towel again and turned towards her as if curious to see why she hadn't responded.

"_Please_, don't flatter yourself, Zabini," she sneered, giving him a cold once-over, reminding herself of the Ginny she used to be towards everything Slytherin.

Since when had she forgotten just how sleazy and untrustworthy they could be? Oh, yeah, the war.

No, now wasn't the time to become soft-hearted.

"You are so full of yourself," she continued mockingly. "Do you actually think I would throw myself at you of all people? You must be joking!" she gave a bitter laugh and glared with all the Weasley superiority she could muster.

However, she found his reaction not entirely what she had anticipated; Blaise was eyeing her with something close to admiration.

"Right little firecracker you are, huh?" he smirked, once again giving her a slow, patronizing once-over, holding his gaze a bit too long on her bared legs, making her suddenly shiver in the otherwise hot room.

She snorted, having none of his dirty tricks. "Yeah, _tough_. I bet you're used to girls giggling like silly school girls and falling right into your bed just from a single glance from you."

"Actually they do, but you're no silly school girl, are you now, Weasley?" he said, the last part spoken with a slightly more challenging note to his otherwise bored voice, as he stepped closer to her, a curious spark in his eyes.

She crossed her arms across her chest with equal defense and challenge but couldn't help wondering why he didn't just dismiss her with his usual cold attitude and let this one slide. Why the sudden interest? She wasn't even sure why they were having this conversation in the first place.

Oh, right, they were baiting each other … for some reason.

"You don't scare me, Zabini. Nor do your 'astounding' powers of seduction make me melt into your manly arms. You'd have to use Love Potion to get me even to look at you in that way," she spoke with exaggerated disgust.

He raised a skeptical eyebrow, his voice taking a harder edge, probably due to her consistent hostile attitude. "That can be arranged. Though, you certainly seemed _persuasive_ only minutes ago without any … 'help'. And who said I was seducing you, Weaslette?"

"Oh, my bad. It's just how you _are_."

"Excuse me?" his eyes narrowed, all traces of the swaggering arrogance minutes ago wiped from his face. He stepped even closer to her. "You don't know me, so don't start to presume _anything_, little Weasel," he drawled in an unmistakable threatening tone.

She held her stance and gave a hard chortle in response. "Don't think I don't know how big of a superficial bigot you were back then and clearly still are!"

"And you were part of the same rambunctious pack of red-headed, hot-headed, self-righteous blood traitors," he growled back. "Clearly that hasn't changed either, though the pack seems to have narrowed down a great deal, huh, Red? Good riddance, I say! Damn rotten lot you Weasleys!" he grated out between his teeth.

Ginny's nostrils flared as she clenched her fists, unsuccessfully trying to will herself not to get too riled up by his disgusting words. How dared that conceited snob of a wizard say those things to her and her family when _he_ had been on the wrong side, the_ losing_ side, all along – and yet he _still_ acted like he was better than anyone else!

The words left her mouth before she could stop herself. "Don't forget which side you were on and which one actually won, Zabini! I've had no reason of rubbing it in your face, but if you want to, _I could_!"

Blaise's otherwise so cool exterior tensed at her words and his poker-face changed into a distorted grimace. "You bitch! You don't know shite about me or what happened! Stay the fuck out of business you know nothing of!" he spoke menacingly, eyeing her coldly.

Startled, her gaze jumped across his intense, dark face looming over her, mere inches from her own.

She didn't think she could set him off this quickly. Even for a Slytherin he was famous for keeping his cool in practically every situation. She had never seen or known him to throw a tantrum but then again: She didn't really know him that well. Her accusations were really rather unfounded and childish, a voice spoke in the back of her head, but she was too clouded by emotions to care. He was a bastard who had gotten away with way too much during the war and she decided to let him taste his own medicine.

She was about to open her mouth when he beat her to it, smirking icily down at her, apparently having gained his cool.

"Don't you think I know you're no innocent, little virgin, Weaslette?"

"_What_?!" Ginny screeched, rearing back her head.

"That's right. Your reputation precedes you around here. I know you're nothing but a whore!"

She froze open-mouthed, fiery indignation and shame bursting within her at his accusations, coloring her cheeks; her Weasley temper flaring into full-fledged rage.

"And you're nothing but a _man_-whore!" she spat back, then shot him an acid smile that rivaled his own. "I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree then, huh?"

Blaise clenched his jaw, his eyes flashing dangerously, and before Ginny was able to react she was pressed against the damp stone wall, a strong hand gripping her throat tightly.

"Don't you dare speak of my mother that way, Weaslette!" Blaise snarled down at her, his face looming darkly over hers.

Despite the initial shock of his closeness and strength, she struggled against his iron hold but in vain. Paralyzed against him and without her wand (which was hidden in her clothes on a bench a couple of feet from them) she was pretty much helpless. Physically, at least. Merlin, how she hated him in that moment! The Weasley temper once again got the better of her.

"Fuck off, Zabini!" Her throaty voice constricted painfully under the pressure of his hand. "I couldn't care less about you or your mother or any of that cowardly Death Eater scum you hung around with! I swear to you, if you do not let me go this instant, I'll hex your sorry Slytherin ass into oblivion!"

If Blaise was surprised by her passionate outburst, he didn't let it show. Instead, he stared down at her with an unreadable expression, and then a smile – which Ginny found positively disturbing – slowly formed on his handsome face, taking in her struggling, feisty state despite being imprisoned in his grip.

He had to admit she was as beautiful as ever, especially when she was riled up. After all, he had eyes and women _were_ his weakness (he groaned inwardly at his unintentional admittance to the very accusation she had given just minutes ago). In that particular aspect, Houses didn't matter. He had always known Ginny Weasley was an unmatched beauty. With that long, sleek, flaming-red hair, heart-shaped, freckled face, cute, little button nose, a bit too fascinating mouth and then those fiery, syrupy-brown eyes that right now glared up at him and sparkling with something close to embers. A more than decent body, too; tall enough to not disappear in front of him, tomboyish with a hint of curves and with the tell-tale definitions of a Quidditch player. Everything on the outside only seemed upgraded by that passionate and loyal personality of hers (typical Gryffindor), witty comebacks and one hell of a Quidditch player (well, he _had_ paid attention). And then there was the infamous Weasley temper, of course. He had never been given the chance to see Ginny Weasley's adamant outbursts up-close before, and he had to give it to her: The girl had spunk. He couldn't help but admire that in a girl, even though it was _this_ girl who right now grated him in more than one way.

_Right. Snap out of it, man!_ Girl or no girl, he was touching a_ Weasel_!

Grimacing he slacked his hold on her throat and realized that in the heat of the moment he had ended up not only pressing his arm but his entire length against her, while both of them being half-naked. He could practically feel the knot in her towel loosening across her chest as he loosened his arm's pressure against her.

He gulped, feeling the anger still coursing through his veins, surprised by his own unusual display of brute force. He had never been as physical threatening as Draco, whose unchecked anger often came through such physical displays, his verbal tantrums less original, whereas Blaise regarded himself as less boorish and instead used his impressive physical, taciturn stature and cold, calculating eyes to enforce his power. He avoided touching people as much as possible, which was kind of ironic since his entire reputation was built on the physical matters happening in the bedroom.

He quickly backed away from her, both of them huffing and puffing from their angry spat while searching each other's faces with both distrust and surprise, their awkward position dawning on them both.

Blaise's head and body were racking with the confused thoughts and feelings their brief, sudden encounter had formed in him. He wasn't attracted to the Weasley girl now, was he? The cursing through his veins was merely from being riled by her words just now, wasn't it?

It was unusual for him to be riled by anything, yet he had thrown them right back at her as well. But he hadn't _really_ been insulted had he?

Such insults would once have left him cool-faced, inwardly boiling with a malicious sense of revenge that he would have carried out subtly and brilliantly and leave the results all the more devastating for the wrongdoer. Now that the war was over and everyone were left mollified and out of place after having previously thrived on the natural animosity between the Houses, Mudbloods and Purebloods, etc., those old insults were either banned or left meaningless for either parts. Sure, you could still rub salt in old wounds and it stung like hell, but slinging out slurs like that couldn't really surpass the level of atrocity everyone had been through during the war. People had realized what those very slurs were really rooted in and those who had been on the wrong side, the losing side, realized that such slurs could backfire once you were in the minority; reversing the situation. Being called 'Death Eater scum' or 'Death Eater whore', literally spat at and publicly humiliated was no pleasant comeback from a life in illusion and fear from the ideology and regime prescribed by Voldemort. But it was just that: A reverse situation of one where he once had been on top, the mocking one. He couldn't feel sorry for himself. He knew Purebloods and Death Eaters who had joined up in pure fear of their family's safety; _those_ he felt sorry for when treated thus, but the Zabinis had, after all, managed to stay out of most of the shit going down during Voldemort's battle for power. Blaise had stayed cool on the outside though it was a different matter on the inside. His mother had been fearful but, luckily, out of harm's way. He had, of course, worried about his closest of friends; Draco, most of all, but also Theo, who was more sensitive than he led on and had been in the claws of his deranged psycho of a father, who was now in Azkaban. The Greengrass sisters had been used as unwilling pawns in the war, too, and far from kindly. He had even felt sorry for Pansy, who never seemed to be able to go unnoticed of her brainwashed parents (who, ironically, were rumored to have Muggle-blood in their veins). He knew both Theo and Pansy regarded Hogwarts as their only true home and had only acted as they did during the Battle because they were scared to see the school, their home, ruined by the Death Eaters.

He shook himself from his digressions, focusing back at the still blistering red-head in front of him who was now shooting him a suspicious glare.

"What's your deal, Zabini?" she accused gruffly, massaging her sore throat.

He swallowed thickly. _Had_ he been too rough?

He stared down at his hands and ran them over his head in pure frustration. _Fuck! _Was he losing it?! He needed to leave, to get out of there, before he lost it completely.

Turning around, grabbing his gear, he steered towards the door, not even daring the Weasley another look or word nor caring that he only wore a towel.

He left the seething, gaping girl by the wall in the dripping bathroom without seeing the questioning look forming on her face.

What just happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ginny's observations about Blaise's undiscriminating preferences for women are somewhat prejudiced (well, she doesn't exactly know him, after all) and even a little ironic, since we know Pansy made that notorious comment in Year Six about Blaise actually finding Ginny good-looking (which he denied), despite how hard he is to please in reality, suggesting a rather selective preference for women. One that likely entail pretty red-heads..? But, of course, Ginny doesn't know this little fact, does she now? ;)


	3. Musings and decisions

Blaise angrily flopped himself down in a chair along with his belongings in the old Ravenclaw Common Room, now used for the students of the House of _Politics and Law_. Theo who had been sitting in a chair opposite him looked up.

"Trouble in paradise?"

Blaise grumbled. "An unfortunate, red-haired encounter in the Prefects' Bathroom, no less."

Theo smirked. "Let me guess: The Weaslette?"

"Who else? She's the _only_ Weasley who has returned and here I thought it would be a pleasant ride to get that bunch off my back my last year."

"Who says it can't be a pleasant ride?" Theo leered, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Fuck off, Nott," Blaise snorted.

"What? I remember you once proclaiming she was fit."

"Yeah, I remember. I also remember saying she was Weasel trash and that I wouldn't come near her with a ten-foot broomstick," he snapped.

"But you would now?" Theo prodded curiously.

Blaise whipped his head towards him. "What's with you?" he groaned. "Who are you and what have you done with the old Theo who used to hate everything red-haired and Gryffindor and jumped at every chance to mock them?"

Nott shrugged. "He died in the war, I guess," and then gave a disturbingly cheery smile. "This is the new Theo. Get used to him."

Blaise stared disbelievingly at him, as if he had grown a second head. "I'm not sure I will." He leaned his head back and rubbed his face, sighing heavily. "Fuck, I miss Draco."

"Hey!" Theo exclaimed, feigning insulted. "I take that personally! Just because your old fuck-buddy bailed on you to go to Durmstrang this year, doesn't mean you don't have other options!" He pouted dramatically, batting his eyes at him.

"Piss off!" Blaise hauled a throw pillow at the grinning Theo who barely missed it.

"No, seriously," Theo said once he had sobered, "the war did stuff to all of us. And of _all_ the Weasleys, I think the Weasley girl is alright, always have. Gotta have respect for a girl who was under the influence of You-Know-Who for her entire first year and came out on the other side in one piece. Not so sure that could be said for the rest of us who actually '_chose'_ his side," he shrugged and images of the girl's grimy, pale, but courageous face when she and Potter emerged from the Chamber that year flitted across Blaise's mind.

They had all been scared shitless that year, even the Pureblooded Slytherins though they'd never admit it, and the idea that Ginny had experienced all those monstrosities up-close, an unwilling pawn for _Him_, made him shudder. She'd been so innocent and young, yet came out only stronger and braver. Scarred, but not discouraged. Just as Theo he couldn't help but respect that.

He looked up and found Theo studying him more intensely than Blaise liked. He always knew Theo was sharper than he gave off, but he rarely laid subject for his scrutinizing gaze. He felt like Theo could see right through him sometimes.

"I guess so," Blaise shrugged, but then his mind brought him back to the incident only moments ago and his voice hardened, "but she's still bloody self-righteous and that Weasley temper would make even Peeves fly away screaming!"

Theo chuckled. "Oh, I'll bet she'll make you scream alright. Those Quidditch muscles…damn. For once, I'm actually envious of Scarhead," he whistled lewdly, back to his old self, and immediately received another velvet throw pillow in his smug face.

Curse him and his dirty mind, Blaise grumbled inwardly and chose to ignore his continuous taunts for the rest of the afternoon. His thoughts had turned to other matters. Or perhaps not _entirely_other matters. Unwilling images of a certain red-head doing certain things in bed with Pothead kept popping up, disturbing his thoughts, taunting him. No, he was determined not to have any more run-ins with that infamous female firecracker! If he had been able to avoid her for six years, this must be a piece of cake.

**X**

_Blaise Zabini was positively infuriating!_

But, no, Ginny wasn't about to let the little episode in the Prefect's Bathroom ruin her routine of Quidditch training and using the Bathroom Sunday afternoons. The risk of a certain former Slytherin appearing at the _same_ time once _again_ was _highly_ unlikely, after all, and she definitely wasn't about to let their little encounter rile her any more than it did. She had literally washed that boy right out of her hair!

Not that he had even mattered in the first place, just – _ugh!_

She drove a hand through her hair, not at all comfortable feeling so out of touch with a situation like that. It shouldn't matter! Not at all! She was used to play such situations off with other boys.

But then again, Blaise Zabini wasn't just like the other boys, was he?

And there was something about the way he looked when he said she didn't understand or know anything about what he had endured during the war that had just struck her.

Damn her own curiosity! She sounded just like Hermione now; being way too analytical about everything.

She usually didn't have troubles talking about her feelings and otherwise channeled everything else through a nice rough-and-tumble of Quidditch. She had thought it an easy task, initially, but seeing him almost daily, not just in the Great Hall and in classes, but also at the Quidditch field, was a constant reminder of how he had looked in the Bathroom. Of course, _he_ didn't seem disturbed by the episode, having fallen right back into his mask of arrogant, bored indifference. He didn't swagger as much as usual, however, and she couldn't help but noticing his somewhat tense reactions whenever she was around. Maybe she was just fooling herself. She could hardly believe she had the ability to irk the infamously cold Slytherin, in the first place; he hadn't even seemed that bothered with anything during the war, for Merlin's sake!

But maybe _that_ was the problem? She didn't really know whether he _truly_ had been bothered or not, did she? He wasn't the infamously enigmatic Slytherin for nothing. Maybe something had happened to his mother? Maybe he had been worried about his so-called 'friends' from the former Slytherin House (though only Merlin knew where such concern suddenly came from)?

She moaned out loud, hoping to still the jumble of thoughts in her head regarding the wizard.

Since when had she become like this? Moaning over a boy. _Seriously_? She had compassion but this was taking it too far, even for her. She didn't have time to ponder about the Slytherin; she had tons of things to do and no time for boy trouble – or whatever this was.

That was the problem, wasn't it? She didn't even know what to categorize this! The war seemed to have ripped everything into shreds and the task of piecing everything together, even the smallest, most trivial, day-to-day stuff, seemed a lot harder than she initially thought. She welcomed normalcy at the beginning of the school year, but of course she was hardly allowed a moment's peace before a certain Slytherin – of _all_ former Houses! – went and stirred it up! Ugh!

No, she had decided not to let the episode affect her anymore than it already had. She was still determined to use the Quidditch field and the Prefects' Bathroom those late Sunday afternoons for herself and if she had to, she would hex his sorry ass off the wet tiles if he indeed appeared or as much as looked at her the wrong way!

Yes, that was the plan. So far, so good. The old Ginny Weasley was back. At least, for this particular task.

She smiled to herself, humming vaguely as she pinned the seasonal poster of the Holyhead Harpies above her bed in room. A new year, a new season. She looked forward following the girls in their endeavors to win back the Quidditch World Cup.

She couldn't wait to someday join them in those very endeavors.


	4. A deal is struck

She had no idea how she'd ended up in another pointless row with the dark-skinned Slytherin yet again!

OK, she knew partly why, but why it had to always be _him_ she had no bloody clue! For all her careful side-stepping and avoiding him since their first encounter, she was apparently bound to literally run into him – in the company of Theodore Nott of all unwanted people! – in the halls on her way to class.

She prided herself on her good reflexes but this particular day her head had been filled with Head Girl duties, a shitload of homework and double-up on Quidditch training because one of her assistant training captains had become sick during that week. It didn't help that she'd begun to sleep less ever since … well, since the beginning of the year. Going to class had become a matter of just following where her legs carried her and they didn't always lead her to the right classroom nor managed to dodge whoever was coming in the opposite direction, unfortunately. Highly unpractical, of course, because in the moment she collided with a tall, lean and hard body, all her alarm clocks set off, but way too slow, and combined with her stressed-out nerves following a grumpy attitude (that she'd fought hard to hold back with the younger students), she practically barked at the person before she managed to recognize _who_ she had collided with. _Way to go, Ginny._

"Watch it, you oaf!" she grumbled and picked up the books she had been holding.

There was a scoffing sound. "And here I thought I could avoid the _one_ Weasel left on the _entire_ school, but apparently the universe conspires against me," a bored and disturbingly familiar voice drawled above her and she snapped her head up to face the last person she had hoped to run into.

"_Zabini_," she sneered and stood, giving him an icy glare that matched his own.

"_Weasley_," he sneered back.

"Nott," an amused voice came from beside them and Ginny whipped her head around to see the other former Slytherin and buddy to a certain ferret, Theo Nott, standing with a curious look on his face.

_Terrific, _Ginny grimaced. _Just what I needed:_ _**Two**__ loathsome_ _Slytherins!_

"And the universe seems to conspire against _me_, since I keep running into the last persons I want to run into on this earth! Haven't you Slytherins got something else to do? Like hexing yourselves on purpose? If not, I'd be glad to do it for you. I know some good ones that I'd like to try out."

"_Ouch_, Weaslette," Nott gave a dramatic pout, shooting her a somewhat mystifying smirk. "Was that really necessary? I mean, we haven't even been introduced properly yet. We're not Muggles - thank Merlin! - but we're still English. Don't you know you do not go around throwing insults without certain manners?"

Ginny frowned. She knew even less about the Nott boy than she knew about Zabini, but she would never have taken him for being the smug, sarcastic type. Then again, she'd never really gotten a good impression of him before. He'd seemed so quiet and withdrawn back then, during the war, seemingly only taunting Harry and her friends whenever he was around Malfoy's gang and the mood struck. She had heard about his father, Nott Sr., of course, and how psychotic a Death Eater he had been under Voldemort, but not much else. He was in Azkaban now, if she remembered correctly. Probably why the Nott boy could loosen a bit up now. Pureblood or not, having a Death Eater as a father could _not_ have been a bed of roses. That was, however, no hindrance to not give back of the same kind.

"Like you Slytherins have ever known manners when it comes to anything!"

Theo held on to his smirk. "Touché. I should know better than to argue with the sharpest of the Weasleys," he said without a drop of sarcasm to his voice.

Ginny practically dropped her jaw. Had he just - _complimented_ her? Didn't he _despise_ her and her kind?

Blaise - who had been standing silently by in his usual arrogant demeanor - whipped his head around to Nott, shooting him a sharp glare. Theo merely shrugged, still smirking, and gave Blaise a secretive look which bugged Ginny.

Had Blaise confided in Nott about their encounter in the Bathroom?

Like there was anything unusual to tell, but still … She didn't know the two Slytherins or the range of their friendship. Neither seemed the types to confide in _anyone_. However, they both seemed somewhat different after the war – their basic Slytherin traits _not_ included – and they might have been more close than what they gave off.

She eyed Blaise who kept sending scowling glares at the unfazed Nott.

What exactly had Blaise told him?

Seemingly something Nott found amusing and Blaise _did not_.

She sighed, feeling the effects of her sleep-deprivation among everything else weighing heavily on her head, realizing she still needed to get to class in due time.

"Well, I'd love to stay and watch you two boys eye-fucking, but _some of us _actually have important things to do, such as going to class," she bit out between her teeth, drawing the baffled attention from both boys in front of her.

Theo gave something close to a genuine smile (a disturbing sight), followed by a dramatic 'tsk'. "Such potty mouth, Weasley. Actually, it reminds me of someone. Tell me, have you been hanging out too much with any former Slytherins I happen to know, lately?" He shot a conspiratorial look at Blaise who was practically blistering by now and Theo's eerie smile widened. Ginny gaped at both boys, though Blaise refused to look at her, still sending silent daggers at the smiling Theo.

So he _did_ know about the encounter! Ugh! That toad to Zabini had probably told all kinds of lewd, untrue things about how he had 'manhandled' her..!

But Ginny refused to rise to his bait and gave him her most sugary, sarcastic smile.

"No more than usual, being the Gryffindor _whore_ that I am," she shot an icy glare at Blaise who was finally looking at her and if she wasn't much mistaken, there was a slight crack in his otherwise blank expression. She continued, triumphantly. "But why don't you ask the _true_ whore among us? He should _definitely_ know about such matters," she spoke acidly, subtly gawking Blaise's not so blank expression anymore.

"You little bitch!" he snarled between his teeth, his tall body tense as he stepped one threatening step closer to her.

She held her stance, shooting daggers at him, while gripping her wand at her side a little tighter, silently daring him to move on her the same way as last time and feel the consequences. He didn't move any closer, however, but he was close enough for her to feel his hot breath against her face, watching his nostrils flaring and his deep-brown eyes almost turning black as he stood, towering over her, an impressive dark mass of coiled muscles and unchecked anger. But she wasn't scared. If he tried anything, she'd show him just how dangerous she could be as well.

Theo seemed to have realized the danger of the situation, stepping towards them, but he couldn't exactly press himself in between the minimal amount of space between them. Though Nott was almost as tall as Blaise, he was rather lanky in stature, lacking the muscle mass Zabini was clearly exhibiting and Ginny doubted he'd be physically able to fight Zabini off once he first started.

"Now, now, my friends," he spoke hesitantly, an appeasing hand hovering above Blaise's tense shoulder, not quite touching, while his eyes darted between the dark wizard and the red-headed witch, trying to suss out the best way to handle the situation so that they ended up with the least amount of hexed limbs. They were still standing in the open halls of the school; students shuffling to and fro along the corridors on their way to class, some beginning to take notice of the tensed, little scenario where the three of them stood.

Ginny ignored Nott's feeble attempts to divert their attentions. She was still having a silent war of glares with Blaise which she had no intention of losing. He did, however, impress her with his steadfastness and resilience. Few could stand up to her when she went like this, but she figured his entire power play was built on that whole silent villain type-thing where one threatens with glares and poses rather than words and fists. But she knew how to end this one as the winner. She leaned back her head slightly, arching an eyebrow and gave a superior smile which, unfortunately, only sparked a somewhat surprised, but amused look in his otherwise thunderous, dark eyes and he answered it with a mirroring stance. _Damn!_ He had tried this one before – or he was simply a quicker learner than she thought. Not that she couldn't handle this little game – she practically excelled in it!

"Hey, you guys might want to lay off the silent eye-slaying for a minute – McGonagall is heading right this way!" Theo hissed from the sideline.

Blaise and Ginny stiffened, pulling themselves out of their intense eye-off and diverted their glances down the hall where the Headmistress - true enough - was coming towards them in her usual austere fashion that made students in the hall spread and huddle nervously alongside the walls to let her pass.

"Miss Weasley, I wanted to ask if you– oh, hello, Mr. Zabini … Mr. Nott," she greeted the two boys formally, albeit slightly baffled at seeing the two former Slytherins in company of Ginny. They gave her stilted nods in return, not fully sure how to be on friendly terms with the imposing, older woman and former Head of Gryffindor.

Ginny quickly diverted the awkward situation from escalating even further by smiling politely at the woman. "Yes, Headmistress, was there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

McGonagall's apprehensive, wise eyes zoomed back on the familiar face in front of her and gave a slight smile, getting back on track.

"Ah, yes. I wanted to ask you if you possibly could help introducing the First Years properly to the way of Quidditch since you _are_ a team captain, Head Girl _and_ one of the most reliable students we have." Of course, McGonagall said this her usual blunt, factual manner, yet Ginny couldn't help but feeling inwardly pleased by the Headmistress' instinctive appraisal of her. "Since Madam Hooch is on a leave for the time being and I fear a lot of rumors are already flying – no pun intended," she spoke without humor, while Blaise and Theo tried hard not to snicker, "about earlier years' violent competition between the Houses. Especially –," McGonagall halted for about a millisecond and Ginny was quick to take the natural cue:

"I see, Headmistress," she said with a pointed nod. "I'll be pleased to introduce the first years to Quidditch. I'm not sure _when_ exactly since I have lot on my schedule, but I'm sure I'll find the time."

"Excellent, Miss Weasley," McGonagall proclaimed with finality, looking rather relieved. Her gaze diverted to Blaise who had been standing silently in the background, but he straightened somewhat nervously when the older witch regarded him with that stern, scrutinizing gaze of hers.

"You are in the Quidditch game as well, aren't you, Mr. Zabini?" she asked him. He nodded. "_And_ a Prefect?" He nodded again, getting where she was going and becoming inwardly alarmed. "Well, then, maybe you wouldn't mind helping Miss Weasley in teaching the first years? It _is_ a large number of young students who needs to get introduced, and after all, two are better than one, isn't that so?"

She regarded both students with sharp eyes, and they couldn't do anything but nod wordlessly at her – _in theory_ – perfectly reasonable suggestion before she quickly parted with them and left them both in tense silence once again. Some time in between Theo had bailed on them. _Some friend!_ Blaise scowled.

Ginny cleared her throat, shooting a sidelong glance at Blaise, almost fearing to see his face twisted in malicious glee by the chance of taunting her even more, but he seemed as taken aback as she was.

"Well, then," Ginny mirrored McGonagall's words, much more tensely, however. "It seems we've gotten ourselves in a pickle here because you can't seem to stay away from me. Anyway, she didn't specify whether or not we had to do it _together_, so let's just divide up the task so that we don't have to look at each other's faces any more than necessary, alright?" She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding back and regarded him resolutely to make out his response.

Blaise merely looked at her, his expression back in its usual place; unresponsive and inscrutable, which she hated but she could work with that. Anything but his tensed, confusing signals she could work with.

She put her hands on her hips, making the decision for them. "_Fine_. We have a deal then."

She turned and started to walk away from the insufferable former Slytherin when she heard a flaunting, smug voice behind her:

"So. You wanna meet at your place or at my place to go over the details?"

He didn't get an answer.


	5. Quidditch and questions

Ginny ended up sending a note to Blaise. After all, she couldn't _refuse_ to communicate with him since McGonagall had _personally_ requested the two of them to share this – now rather wearisome - task. And, despite her growing workload, it had sounded like such a perfect assignment for her to do in the first place, being both Quidditch captain and Head Girl.

But, _of course_, they weren't able to split up the task between them as she had first hoped and suggested. That much the Headmistress had been clear about when Ginny first gave her the plan for the First Years' introduction to Quidditch that she had so carefully formulated. Having to introduce _all_ of the First Years to _all_ the aspects of Quidditch just within a year required at least _two _persons present when guiding the younger students through it all. It would be too strenuous if it was just one person's responsibility alone, the Headmistress pointed out and Ginny had to reluctantly concede to her reasoning.

She rubbed her forehead in frustration. Why _him_? Why _her_?! Why were the powers of Merlin against her? Had Professor Trelawney foretold something in Divination regarding all this that she had overlooked? (Honestly, she didn't pay much attention to her classes to begin with, so it was fruitless to ask herself that).

Ginny sighed. She was in no mood for this deal to be anything but a strict business arrangement between them - no fudge; nothing that could be misinterpreted on her behalf - and had shortly written what she had in mind should be included in the introduction to the First Years. She expected him to fill in the blanks where he'd see fit and not start any unnecessary off-course nonsense once they began. She gathered they were both equally eager to get this task over and done with.

Then again, she'd misjudged Zabini before. Maybe he had some sadistic streak like the rest of the former Slytherins and wanted to prolong the torture a bit more; probably getting pleasure from seeing her squirm under his malicious, meaningless teasing. He couldn't exactly be called capricious; he still remained impressively cool in his entire stoic superiority-vanity complex – or whatever he had going on - even when he was flipping his lid the few times she'd encountered him (_and_, she proudly thought, been the reason he had flipped his lid). But she concluded she just had to figure him out somehow; picking up everything from his minuscule expressions to his controlled reactions to his likes and dislikes to the people he surrounded himself with in order to read him properly. Why, her line of thought was positively _Slytherin_! (She didn't know how to feel about _that_ particular realization).

She had a feeling, though, that she wouldn't be able to read him entirely. Was that even what she wanted? Practically spying on him? Getting under his skin? It was not like he was even worth all of her time and brain-power! Ugh, here she went again; going all Hermione-analytical on everything surrounding Blaise! Then again, it was the necessary evil in order not to fall into one of that boy's deceitful traps and frustrating mind games. She refused to come out the losing part in whatever he was planning. Typically Slytherin! It was not like she even knew what he wanted from her – it was just natural for a Slytherin to manipulate everything and everyone.

Yet, she decided she wanted to be the mature one; sending the note _to him_. It was the formal thing to do; coming off neither too friendly nor too hostile. Hermione - who was in the same House as him – had gotten hold of one of the younger boys who could deliver the note to the boys' dormitory if he didn't happen to spot Blaise in the common room. When Ginny first didn't hear from him, she began to wonder whether he would be so impertinent to dismiss the task entirely. He didn't seem the type to deny a request from the Headmistress herself, no matter how lazy and bored he appeared to be. Then Hermione had appeared with an answering note that said nothing but: 'I'll be there, Red', and Ginny couldn't help feeling a bit relieved. It was a big task for _one_ person, after all, and she didn't want to make bad excuses for his absence to McGonagall. She still had her doubts whether or not he would _actually_ show up on time and be of any help at all. He _was_ a Slytherin to the core and she had to remind herself of that in order not to slip or become too trustful if he suddenly attacked or bailed on her as Slytherins were prone to do.

Hermione hadn't been able to be of much help either regarding figuring out Blaise's character - even though they shared the same House now. She was way too preoccupied with her internship and more absent-minded than ever and said she hadn't noticed anything different regarding his behavior, but then again, she hadn't paid much attention before and couldn't really conclude anything different about him now.

"Still seems as cold and uncaring as ever," she had said over breakfast in the Great Hall one morning when Ginny had asked, shrugging.

"Thanks," Ginny had replied drily, shooting a disgruntled glare at her friend's bushy head buried behind the _Daily Prophet_, probably lapping up the latest news from the Ministry.

Hermione hadn't looked up from the newspaper when she spoke a couple of minutes later, still a distracted note to her voice: "What's the deal with you and Zabini, anyway? Have you two had an argument of some sorts? I don't know why you bother, really. Former Slytherins or not; don't expect any of those boys to have changed much. In fact, I think they're just grumpier now than before because they lost the war."

Ginny had grumbled at her friend's somewhat preachy, ignorant attitude which at times irked her more than usual. She could use the attention of a close friend at the moment. Yet, she could hardly blame Hermione's detached mode when she was as ambitious and enthusiastic about a project as she was right now. Ginny suspected it was also her friend's way of dealing with the war somehow and how things had turned out with Ron. Her way of making sense of the world again. Ginny could forgive her for not being particularly interested in her deal with Zabini. Why she herself bothered that much was a mystery to her, still. She had to manage this one on her own but was glad to see Hermione readily accepting the task of passing the note for her when she had asked.

**X**

To her surprise, Blaise had arrived on the dot on the morning they were to introduce the first bunch of First Years to Quidditch.

The weather was the usual for Scottish autumn; cold, wet and dark, and most of the First Years weren't exactly prepared for half an hour's lecture out in the windy, cold weather. Some of them had even forgotten their robes. Ginny had mentally rolled her eyes and told them that this was a quite common weather condition around Hogwarts and that they needed to come more prepared next time. They had nodded their small heads instinctively and Ginny thought she'd spotted Blaise trying to cover up an amused smirk from the sideline where he stood.

He didn't say much since she covered most of the details surrounding the game, its rules and culture, but he did answer some of the more enthusiastic questions from some First Years in her House. Most of them were on the topic of previous events on the field. She didn't particularly like how he came across totally biased regarding the matches that Slytherin had won and found that he laid on pretty thick how some of the other matches and – in _his_ opinion – 'horrible' judgment calls had played out in the past. The small heads actually grinned when he relayed more embarrassing moments among the former Houses, none more so than Gryffindor, of course, and they seemed to swallow his one-sided tales raw. She bristled slightly but was unable to interject or stop him with so many children to manage. Many of them still wanted to hear about the war and the Battle of Hogwarts, still tender subjects for her to naturally answer, and it had become more and more clear to her that these were questions the children hadn't dared asking their parents or teachers.

"Did you defeat Voldemort?" a small, dirty-blond boy asked her loudly and unabashedly, making Blaise snap his head towards them from where he had been relaying a probably detailed description of one of Slytherin's victories to a bundle of students. His inscrutable gaze trailed from the kid to her, alert of her response. She wrung her hands, giving a tight smile to the boy who had asked.

"Well, actually, it was Harry Potter and his friends as well as the Order of the Phoenix – which I've no doubt you've already heard about – who defeated him together."

"But weren't _you_ there, too?" a girl with a pageboy cut asked nearby her.

Ginny shot a glance at Blaise who still had his dark, unreadable eyes fixed on her. "Well, yes, I was. I did help Harry Potter and the Order during the war and when Hogwarts was attacked –"

"Were you scared?" another small voice cut in from somewhere in the crowd.

Ginny smiled calmly, having been asked this one before. "Yes, but I had my friends, family and teachers around me to protect me as I protected them and though we were all scared, we stuck together 'till the end."

"Wow, you are brave! Are all Gryffindors –," another boy started but was elbowed by a girl beside him and he winced shamefully at the admonishment, "I mean – are all _former_ Gryffindors this brave?"

Ginny smiled at the display. "Some of us are – or were. You could say it was a House trait we were sorted by back then. But not all Gryffindors have been brave and good; remember Peter Pettigrew," the students around her nodded in awe as she continued, "and in war bad things happen to even the best of people. Sometimes it makes you do whatever it takes for you and your family and friends to survive whether through bravery or cowardice…"

Ginny trailed off, her eyes darting across the crowd of expectant faces around her. Though, she had already given this speech what felt a hundred times, knowing what she had to say and what she had to acknowledge about her own role in the defeat of one of the darkest wizards of all time, the presence of Blaise halted her somewhat. It was so different when it was just her and a bunch of innocent kids who didn't know what horrors she and her peers had experienced. Now there was one who had been there, _too_. Someone whose choices and ideals had been much more... _ambiguous_.

She didn't know how to proceed exactly. She didn't want to sound like she was bragging, nor did she want to undermine her or her friends' presence in the war. More importantly, she didn't want to risk awkward questions about Blood Purity and the particular animosity between Slytherin and Gryffindor; who had been on the right and the wrong side. They were too complex for her to go into – she wasn't even sure she could! – and it was far from the best time or place to begin and explain such dark matters. Especially in the presence of Blaise.

She swallowed and glanced towards him again. He had turned slightly away so she couldn't see his face, the bundle of kids around him apparently having scuttled closer to her in the meantime.

"Right, I think that's enough for today!" she spoke with a forced cheer, voice slightly hoarse; hoping to divert the situation from becoming what she feared.

Luckily, a misty drizzle of rain from the mountains had begun fogging the view of her surroundings and chilling everyone to the bone it seemed, as several students shivered in their underdressed states.

"Let's get you back inside before you catch cold and begin to fill up Madam Pomfrey's beds at the Infirmary. No need to piss her off unnecessarily," she joked lightly and the students laughed, politely thanking her for the lecture and quickly started to trek towards the school; some of them unsuccessfully trying to shield themselves from the rain, not quite having mastered the particular rain-shielding spell yet.

Blaise hadn't looked once at her since the beginning of her speech, and with his just as unreadable back turned to her, he silently picked up his broom and guided the hoard of students towards the school entrance, leaving her to pick up the rest of the Quidditch gear she had been displaying earlier.

As she walked alone through the now grey, heavy drizzle towards the school, she couldn't help but wonder about how he had reacted to what she had said. Had he felt personally targeted in that last one? She hadn't tried to make it personal, quite the contrary. Then why had he suddenly looked away, not daring to look at her again? Was he ashamed of the past? Sure, he had been in Malfoy's disgusting gang back then, silently backing every taunt and slur, but unlike Draco he hadn't been forced into joining the Death Eaters and he had kept a somewhat low profile until the end. He certainly hadn't been one of the _worst_ during the school years or under Voldemort's regime. And he and his family might have suffered just as much as the Malfoys had. Yet, did he seem repentant for his actions - however 'small' they were compared to those of some of Voldemort's followers? When she first encountered him in the Prefects' Bathroom she would have said no, but since then, the more she had encountered him and been close to him – well, closer than ever before – she had begun to wonder whether he had something to hide. A conscience, for example. Actually, it wouldn't surprise by now if he actually had one. Something in her gut told her so and, for all her faults, her instincts were rarely wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like toying a bit with Ginny. Blaise, as well. They seemed almost too perfect and controlled in the canon. They had their flaws, sure, but we never really got deeper into their characteristics, so it's fun to shake things up a bit. I like to imagine she and Blaise have more in common that what meets the eye and I like making them profusely deny any parallels whatsoever between them as the story progresses. They are both a bit full of themselves, aren't they? I don't find it unthinkable that Ginny could be 'positively Slytherin' in her mindset sometimes; cunning, sly and somewhat manipulative, not in a necessarily selfish way. Less malicious than the real Slytherins and less hot-headed than her brothers and the rest of the Gryffindors. Like a nice mix between the two of them. I like the fics where she has a rather astute sense of a complicated situation and good at advising people to follow their instincts. It's interesting to explore her as a main character, however, and give her doubts and weaknesses one wouldn't otherwise see.
> 
> The question is whether the enigmatic Blaise has some Gryffindor in him? …You'll get to hear more from his POV soon enough :)


	6. A ball of fire

He was going mad. It was a simple as that. Or rather, it wasn't.

He had managed to distract himself somewhat from the unwilling thoughts about the Weasley girl ever since Theo (the oaf!) had planted them in him, by tending to his Prefect duties more vigorously – which, of course, was wholly uncharacteristically for him. He had even managed to pick up previous 'arrangements' with a former Hufflepuff lady friend of his, thinking getting his kinks out would somehow calm the disturbing feelings swirling in him. He had not gotten laid in like _forever_ and he thought his sudden 'frustrations' from the little encounter with the Weaslette were only a sign that he was good and proper horny. However, it didn't work. Even in the blissful trysts, from which he usually got what he needed in the past, he now seemed even more out of focus, leaving him with a bitter taste in his mouth and simply more confused. He was not used to being confused. Certainly not with the ladies! He was used to not feel _anything_. He had gotten numb during his school years and the war; making himself care little for anyone other than his mother and his friends occasionally. He never even put that much feeling into the hatred he proclaimed to have towards anything Muggle and Gryffindor. It was all just a pretense to keep people at bay, never letting them see anything that could make him look vulnerable or weak. He had to protect himself from the worst of gossip (though his mother didn't actually help in that department) and used his – in _his_ eyes – harmless bedroom endeavors as a distraction from anything else that might arise. As a rule, he _never __**ever**_ got emotional or confessional with the girls he slept with, unless, of course, it was for purely beneficial reasons. He could easily put on a show to get what he wanted. He was a cynical, emotionally detached lover. Of course, he had gotten himself a decent reputation as a good shag. He knew he was good; the girls didn't need to fake anything in _that_ department. It was all a matter of practice and talent – and he was a Slytherin _and_ a Zabini. Everything he truly felt or battled with, he channeled through his demonstrations in bed. The girls certainly got more than they bargained for; he made sure of that, though it was all purely selfish and sometimes _that_ wasn't even enough. He was still left with a hollow feeling; like he only consisted of an empty shell built of cold pretense. He even felt used at times when the girls had left – which was ironic because he really just sold himself in the end. Cheaply. Huh. Maybe not that far from his mother, after all.

Back then, during the war when everything went bat-shit-crazy, he had chosen not to ponder further about this fact – a fact that should disturb him more than it did – but instead threw himself into further extracurricular activities … and blissful oblivion. It had been so easy. Girls were practically flocking to his bed. It seemed the near-death occurrences and yearly threats surrounding Hogwarts in those days had a way of heightening the female libido. And he certainly wasn't one to complain. However, as the danger of You-Know-Who and his followers increased and especially after Dumbledore died, the nerves took over and the girls became more moody, skittish and even subdued in bed. They, too, seemed to have their minds someplace else and the pleasure was short-lived.

Lady troubles had never really been an issue with him. Whenever there was trouble with them, he seduced and bedded them. Simple as that. Distraction like that he discovered proved the best remedy for whatever – usually petty - worries they for some reason chose to bring to him. He didn't like complications in any form. He didn't (or chose not to) see faults in his behavior and if the girl(s) had a problem with that, they could just give him what he wanted or fuck off! He didn't have time for trivial dealings like that.

However, dealing with the Weasley girl was another matter entirely. He couldn't just _bed_ her to distract her or get matters over with her; that much was clear. Not that he was that interested, anyway. Sure, she was an obvious beauty and a right firecracker, he couldn't help but admit _that_, but then again, _no_ _one_ could deny that. It wasn't like she could really be categorized as 'girl trouble'. He'd just happened to run into her in the most inconvenient of times in his life; when he'd wanted nothing more but a final, quiet school year where he could stay in the shadows as much as possible and avoid any further hatred thrown his way for his past mistakes. She'd said some pretty nasty things (well, so had he) which had set him off, but it wasn't like he hadn't heard them before. It was just … coming from _her_ mouth it had seemed all the more hard-hitting for some reason. He couldn't figure out _why_ exactly.

It hadn't helped to encounter (make that 'bodily collide with') the Weasley girl once again – and in the crowded hallways no less! – while he was in the company of his _numero uno_ tormentor on the subject: Theo! _Great. Terrific._ And then the Weasel-girl had the audacity to snarl at him when it was _she_ who had walked right into _him_! And it only got better when Theo started butting his big, fat nose into the entire ordeal (Blaise should **never** have told him about the incident in the Bathroom!) and getting the red-head all confused and riled up by his weird, smirking banter (seriously, what was he playing at?!). When Theo suddenly started throwing out serious compliments to the girl, Blaise had had about enough of his untimely intrusion and secretive hints, wanting strongly to wipe that bloody smirk off his face with the floor. He knew Theo wanted him to respond somehow and talk about the awful Bathroom encounter with the girl, but Blaise would rather have The Fat Lady scream him deaf than going into _that_ topic in front of those two!

So Blaise settled for sending death glares at the boy, blistering over the fact that Theo seemed totally unfazed by his silent warnings and kept on going, baiting the girl. The last straw came when Theo made so obvious, lewd suggestions about the Bathroom incident that the Weaslette practically grew horns, going into a dangerously vengeful game-face and chose to re-use the undoubtedly _worst_ parts of the 'dialogue' from that very encounter. It hit him right where she'd wanted and he hadn't been able to stay cool in this one! Not for all the gold in Gringotts!

Everything - ever since that first, fatal meeting – ever since the war, really – had been built up inside him and grown into an uncontrollable ball of fire that _she_ for some reason managed to set off every-_bloody_-time they collided. That feisty, little, red-haired Weasel-girl who had been so harmless and insignificant to him before all this; meant nothing really, but then again _nothing_ had meant anything back then. Who'd had thought? _He_ certainly wouldn't have only months ago. But months ago everything was different and he didn't wish for those times to return.

Was he fated to have this thrown upon him? He'd never wished for this, never asked for any of it. He just wanted to keep a low profile and stay out of trouble. That's what he'd always wanted.

But then McGonagall had shown up before everything had exploded and dropped a bigger and even more unwanted bomb: Introducing the First Years to Quidditch – _together_! It made perfect sense in theory and for once he had no quick comeback or laid-back excuse for skipping duty. This was a face-to-face request from McGonagall, the Headmistress herself, and he couldn't possibly refuse. No getaway. There was no longer any favoring among the Houses or the Heads, now with the new no-prejudice policy that had been inaugurated at the school. No Snape to argue with McGonagall on his behalf. No gang of Slytherins to hide behind. No looming threat of war to make the necessary distractions. It was a new age in a post-war Wizarding World where he had been on the losing side (well, he'd made a pragmatic choice); this was a part of his new duty as a Prefect to comply and, in a sense, restoring whatever good reputation he had left as a Zabini; former Slytherin, blood purist and friend to the kids of most of the Death Eater members during the war. Huh. Not much to restore.

Blaise grumbled, then sighed in defeat. It just wasn't his year, was it? Had _any_ _year_ ever been, really?

He'd gotten the Weaslette's note, setting the date and course of the Quidditch introduction, and he had almost chuckled at the forced formality oozing through the tiny note. Well, two could play that game. He wanted nothing more than to take his mind off that uncontrollable ball of fire, coiling and uncoiling, within his body - along with all the 'why's and 'how's tumbling around in his head, making him positively mad. And though taking the bull by its horns might not seem like one of his brightest ideas (it sounded disgustingly _Gryffindor_ and the mere thought made him gag), he already felt powerless against whatever powers that were pressing upon him, no matter what he did. He was caught between a rock and a hard place and might as well do something - whatever it was - than sit around and go crazy over nothing.

So, he had shown up that early morning on the field as it lay covered in the usual, lousy Scottish weather; dutifully and on time in full Quidditch gear, making the Weasel girl raise her eyebrows higher than what seemed humanly possible.

It had proved to be less awful than he'd thought once the kids started questioning about previous games, and he couldn't help throwing a sly, nasty smile towards the unknowing red-head as she steered the dewy-eyed crowd of admiring youngsters around the Quidditch field. He'd show her how to capture the students' attention alright! This was a perfect opportunity to grate _her_ nerves for once. He felt more than saw how his _slightly_ subjective tales of the victories and losses on the field affected her from a distance. She had no chance to interrupt him with any of her feisty interjections and it only spurred him further as the little heads grinned up at him whenever he relayed a particularly nasty detail about one of Gryffindor's _many_ embarrassments on the field.

Then that dim kid had asked about the war; a possibility he – in his vengeful scheming - hadn't foreseen, and his plan had been skewered. Brutally.

He had been impressed by her collected reaction to the questions, though, given that all of it had happened only months ago, on this very field among other places, and that she had been amidst of that burning, bloody inferno, facing the worst of wizard kind and with no guarantee of survival. He'd gulped down his confident pride as the prodding continued. Why couldn't they shut up? Why did they have to point out how brave Gryffindors were? And yet she managed to throw him completely off course with her astute, wise, however hesitant answers on the tender subjects of previous House traits and how who's good and evil in war was far from a black-and-white matter.

He hadn't been able to look at her then, seeing as she began to trail off; so enraptured by explaining it in an understandable manner to the kids that she'd seemed to have almost forgotten who was present as well. Turning his back to her as she suspiciously cheerily pronounced the end of the lecture, he picked up some of the Quidditch gear and mechanically guided the hoard of chatting kids through the misty, chilling mountain rain towards the castle, not checking to see if she was following. He felt entirely too conflicted, and he didn't know what to make of that feeling!

It had been several days since then and they hadn't spoken a word; only managed to throw each other careful, somewhat curious glances every now and then when they were in the same room. He felt uncomfortable in the tension between them, having no clue why it was there, really, and wondered why he couldn't just let it go. It shouldn't be that hard, yet it was. If the higher powers saw fit to make them 'collide' yet again, he wouldn't know _how_ he'd react and he _hated_ not knowing, not being in control.


	7. Out of line

"What?" he drawled. "Potter's stamina not up to snuff?"

He had no idea how he had ended up with the Weasel girl once again – this time pressed against her delicious form outside the Prefects' Bathroom.

_Oh, right_.

Paloma, his 'special Hufflepuff lady friend', had bailed on him the last minute and it had been roughly three weeks of no extracurricular activity, exhausting Prefect duties and dealing with a certain red-headed someone during their weekly Quidditch introductions who kept giving him the silent treatment in a particularly grating manner, acting all passive-aggressive and snippy-faced for some utterly confusing reason. Yes, it was confirmed: _He was literally losing his mind..! __**And**__ he was bloody horny!_ A dangerous cocktail, indeed – especially when it came to trying to rail in that ball of fire inside of him which seemed to be on the verge of eruption at any moment.

So when another week had passed in stressful, unbearable tension and with no relief whatsoever (his 'little black book' hadn't been of any help…_those bitches!_), with the Weaslette as his only _close_ female company, he had felt that ball roar like a caged lion. Unwilling company or not, she _was_ of the opposite sex, an impossibly pretty and provocative one at that, and that was enough to set it loose.

He rolled his hips provocatively towards hers and leaned in much too close so that she could feel his hot breath against her ear, a devious smile playing on his lips and in his husky voice. "I wonder, Weasley, if you fuck as well as you put up a fight?"

Her reply came as a tightly coiled, hard little fist against his nose before he could react. He howled in surprise and pain and staggered backwards, clutching his bleeding noise, glaring at her red, angry face, while their eyes were shooting icy daggers at each other.

"You pig!" she cried, trembling with unchecked ire, and unconsciously shaking her hurt, blood-stained hand.

_Fuck_, he hadn't been able to get her out of his mind, and now she had practically marked him physically. If anything, he was even harder than before. Hey, he couldn't help himself; every Slytherin had a small, sadomasochistic streak, whether it was physical or psychological or both. Not that he had any preferences when it came to pretty women; he'd even go for someone more demure like Looney Luna Lovegood for all her odd, fairy-headed eccentricities. The Gryffindor women were one of a kind, for better or worse, of course; the Weasleys even more so. But there was only one, female Weasley on Hogwarts and she was standing right in front of him right now, seething once again, pink tinges of anger on her freckled cheeks, and more kissable than ever!

He breathed hard – whether it was from the pain from his bleeding, broken nose or his sudden arousal he didn't know – and appraised her with newfound admiration. The girl could certainly pull a punch, not that he was ever in any doubt of that. He was never one for violent, instinctive behavior, considering it somewhat boorish, but this one he had coming. He had laid it on thick, coming on to her strongly and wrongly, he realized too late. Shite! Her eyes were definitely not anywhere near the same state as his were right now, far from it, actually. He had to do something to make this right before she stormed off again and gave him nothing but evil glares the rest of the week.

He fumbled for his wand and mumbled a quick Episkey towards his injury; feeling and _hearing_ his nasal bone give a sickening crack, a numbing, lesser pain following, and then mumbled a Scourgify to get rid of the blood, making sure none were left on his robes. To his surprise, when he looked up, the witch was still standing across from him, still flaring her nostrils and with the same, burning fire in her eyes, but his gaze shifted to her hand instead, the one that hit him, and realized she'd sustained an injury herself by hurting him. He stepped forwards, only for her to take a quick step back.

"Relax," he said, "I was only going to take a look at your hand. It's injured." He gestured towards it. She looked a bit surprised at that and was about to inspect it, then seemed to come of other thoughts and stared angrily back up at him, wincing as she balled her hands and hid them behind her back.

"Don't think I don't know your game, Zabini," she snarled.

He stared at her in disbelief. "What? What game?"

"Yeah, you and your tricks with the ladies are getting old, you know," she winced again, but her burning gaze never wavered. "You toy with people; seduce and manipulate to get your way, being all charming and seductive one minute, only to chew and spit them out the next!" she practically spat. "Well, _I'm_ not gonna be one of them!"

"Merlin's beard, this is not – I'm not –," he rubbed his head and sighed exasperatedly. "Can't you just give it a rest and let me look at your hand, you stubborn witch! Or, at least, go see Madam Pomfrey's? If you don't take care, you might get a permanent injury."

She was a bit taken aback by this; her rigid posture slackening somewhat and she opened her mouth but seemingly couldn't find a retort to his obvious, albeit surprising concern for her.

"Come on," he said calmly, gesturing towards the Infirmary. "I'll take you to Madam Pomfrey's. Let _her_ look at it for you."

She did nothing but nod mutely, following him down the hallway in silence. The entire situation had changed within seconds and none of them knew exactly what to make of it or say to each other. The tension was charged, killing them for every step, every staircase they had to take. They finally arrived at the Hospital Wing on first floor and without asking Blaise followed her in and waited with her until Madam Pomfrey appeared. When she saw Ginny's hand she immediately wanted to know what had happened, of course, but before Blaise could say anything, Ginny quickly beat him to it:

"It was me. I hit Blaise, but it was for a stupid reason and I acted rashly, so _I_ am to blame, if anything. Not him," she explained without a glitch in her voice. The older Healer's gaze swiveled skeptically between her and Blaise as if seeking confirmation. Blaise only stared down at Ginny in utter surprise. The little Weasley never seized to amaze him, even though he shouldn't be so surprised by her passionate, albeit false defense of another person, even a person such as himself. And he could swear the red-head had Slytherin blood in her veins sometimes! The girl could lie the pants off Dumbledore himself!

Whether Madam Pomfrey believed the story or not, she seemingly accepted the explanation and continued to see to Ginny's hand. Luckily it wasn't anything serious, since Ginny had worked up strong and resilient hands due to Quidditch training. Her knuckles were bruised and some of the skin was split and needed magical as well as natural healing, which - much to Ginny's remorse and protests - laid off Quidditch training for almost two weeks. Despite feeling bad about the whole episode, Blaise couldn't help smiling in secret at the ginger girl's vehement (and equally unsuccessful) protests to the Healer's unbending instructions. She came out from the Infirmary pouting and scowling and with her hand in gauze.

He walked silently alongside her down the halls, unsure what to say to her and fearing what she would say to him once she actually looked at him. Soon they came to the former Common room of Gryffindor where they both slowed down and halted in an awkward pause.

"Listen, about earlier –"

"Look, I'm sorry about –"

Blinking surprised at each other, realizing what the other was trying to say, they couldn't help smiling slightly.

Ginny looked away and sighed. "Listen, Blaise, I shouldn't have hit you. I –,"

"No," he spoke, holding up a hand. "It was my fault. I'm the idiot here. For saying those – _things_ I said. I was only trying to rile you. And I deserved your fist in my face." He rubbed his jaw, a slight, but genuine smile playing on his lips. "You do throw a nice punch though, Weasley; that I have to say."

She blinked, then grinned up at him. "Well, I've told you before, Zabini: You are too smug and handsome for your own good. Messing up your pretty face is the only true way to get back at you." The teasing lilt in her voice was unmistakable and made him chuckle with genuine mirth. The tension between them had eased significantly, making them more at ease with each other; which was probably a first.

He scratched his neck, knowing it was too much to ask for her forgiveness despite everything and decided to make it up to her instead. "Well, I guess, I'll see you around?" he suggested tentatively, hopeful of her response.

She regarded him for a moment, then nodded and gave the smallest of smiles, but a smile nonetheless. A smile he could live on for the rest of the year, he felt, as they parted ways.


	8. A chance of civility and study

Okay, so they'd become civil towards each other.

That was more than what could be said of any previous confrontations where the pleasantries had been, at best, non-existent.

Actually, she found that Blaise was a surprisingly pleasant conversationalist. Who'd had thought? A _Slytherin_ capable of making bearable, intelligent conversation! Well, he wasn't stupid, but then again, she had never _really_ suspected that he was in the first place. Among Malfoy's gang, he'd always seemed to have more between the ears than all of them collectively, though he certainly didn't show it – not to speak of his cold, snobbish, supremacist attitude and womanizing tendencies doing nothing to soften that image.

They actually found something to talk about when the silence between them became too tense, though they still butted heads every now and then. They shared a common love of Quidditch, after all, and started meeting in the Prefect Common Room to go over Prefect duties, even meeting in the library to study together, given they shared many of the same classes, despite being in two different Houses. It happened almost naturally, wordlessly, as if their trails of thought led to the same, sensible conclusions, beginning with bumping into each other in the same sections of the library and most secluded spots to study. Almost as if it all had started with their first chance encounter in the Prefects' Bathroom that quiet, late Sunday afternoon …

Luckily, their encounters had lately taken on a positive note since then. Once when she left after a study session, he had leaned back in his chair, with his hands behind his head, humming contently. Ginny had caught sight of him and stifled a giggle as it reminded her of a big, black panther dozing in the baking sun. She wouldn't be surprised if his Patronus turned out to be a panther – or at least of the feline species. There was something unmistakably feline about him. She wondered if he had even managed to conjure a Patronus? Maybe she could ask … perhaps even be of help?

One of the times they'd met in the library by chance, in search of the same books for Slughorn's Potion class, they wordlessly settled down by the same table, studying in somewhat charged silence. Ginny had trouble concentrating on the book in front of her which primarily dealt with how to extract slime from a particular nasty, slime-producing creature - not nearly as interesting a subject as the one sitting across from her - and kept stealing the tall, dark-skinned boy curious, somewhat apprehensive glances.

She hadn't managed to quell her curiosity since their first encounter in the Bathroom; questions about him still floated around her head, disturbing her thoughts. She had tried not to let the boy be some puzzle she could make out – like Hermione probably would – but she couldn't help taking a basic, human interest in him. At least it was more than she ever had before.

"Zabini?" she prodded tentatively, giving him a sidelong glance.

He didn't look up. "Hm?"

"Um, can I ask you something?" She couldn't help feeling slightly nervous._ Since when had she become like this?! Stop fidgeting, Ginevra Weasley! _They had become civil around each other, lately; she would almost go as far as saying camaraderie towards each other. This was civil, camaraderie talk _if anything_. If he freaked out, he freaked out and she would take it from there. Besides, this was a harmless question… Wasn't it?

When he didn't respond, she took it as a sign to continue. "Have you ever been able to conjure a Patronus?"

Blaise stiffened for about a millisecond, then shrugged, still not looking up. "No. I mean, I haven't exactly _tried_ … or been properly taught, I guess," he muttered with no further elaboration and instead buried himself further into the book in front of him, despite his attention seemed miles away.

"Oh." _He was actually ashamed!_, Ginny thought, surprised at his mellow response.

They continued studying in silence though she was still giving him strange looks. Blaise apparently felt them because eventually he sighed and shot her a dark look. "Will you stop staring, Weasley! I'm _not_ your psych major. Give it a rest."

She was rather surprised by his blatant Muggle reference, never expecting he would have any _willing_ knowledge of the Muggle-world, the bane of his existence. Or so she'd presumed …

He never seized to amaze her; dropping little hints of himself every now and then, although not intentionally it seemed, which made him all the more three-dimensional in her eyes. She cringed inwardly at her awful description of him. She hadn't meant it to sound so cold and clinically, like, she hadn't viewed him as entirely human before now. It was not like _she_ was the biased, supremacist snob..! Wait. Maybe she was, just in reverse? At least, more prejudiced towards (former) Slytherins and Pureblood supremacists than she would have admitted. She had grown up with her brothers spewing slurs about the Slytherins and she had swallowed it whole: _Slytherins were the bad guys and always would be_. How awful to become the very thing she had hated!

She squirmed with shame in her seat which Blaise, unfortunately, happened to notice.

"What's wrong?" he asked, dark brows drawn together.

"Um, nothing," Ginny played it off, smiling hesitantly at him, not able to look him in the eyes. He seemed a bit taken aback by her timid smile thrown his way and still not quite convinced by her answer. _Damn him and his sharp eyes!_, she grumbled to herself. Now it was _her_ turn to try and bury herself in the book in front of her, avoiding his curious glances.

It was highly unusual to see the otherwise so zealous, confident, red-blooded Weasley girl giving nervous glances, asking bumbling question, squirming in her seat and giving him hesitant smiles. He couldn't help thinking something was going on; despite she played it off as nothing. She didn't fool him. She was an excellent liar when something was at stake, so what was this? Not that he had known the girl long, at least, not privately, but he could sense something was definitely wrong. Maybe it was just being around _him_? They _had_, after all, been on opposite sides for so long, recently playing this silly cat-and-dog game that – although he admittedly found it a guilty pleasure while it lasted – saw as something rather childish and unproductive in the long haul. Hadn't he just gone through all that exhaustible, brain-racking time in order to even come to the realization that he wanted something more than constant banter? To actually establish something close to a civil relationship with the Weasley girl?! He had no intention of backing away now.

He rather liked talking to her and being in her company. There were still moments of silly, hot-headed arguments and where he felt an undercurrent of undiscovered tension between them, but he hadn't had further time to ponder upon it. They'd almost come to a silent agreement that since they kept bumping into each other as well as sharing many of the same classes, they might as well meet up and study together, talk Quidditch training and Prefect duties. No offense to Theo - who was smarter than most Slytherins although he hid it well and whom he'd studied together with so far - but he was glad for the diversion (mainly from Theo's inexhaustibly dirty mind), especially when the diversion came in a pretty, female shape with sharp, fiery, caramel-brown eyes. He realized he felt oddly sated and thrilled at the same time after an encounter with her, but most of all: alive. He felt alive with her.

It came with a cost, of course. He actually had to play _friendly_ around her. _Ugh_. This was not something he'd signed up for, being all 'concerned' and all that sentimental crap. Given the state of her injured hand, he'd even surprised himself by offering to take notes for her to Slughorn's classes, obviously seeing how she stubbornly tried to keep up – despite Madam Pomfrey's warnings to keep it rested – resulting in nothing but half-done, hardly readable notes. Don't ask him _why_ he did it; the words sort of flew out of his mouth before he could stop them. Perhaps it was partly out of a budging worry for her injury to get worse and partly out of sheer irritation because of her damn stubbornness to not worry enough herself. So he had helped alright. Not like he enjoyed it or anything. He wasn't used _to give_. He didn't sign up for being her shrink either, but, at present, he couldn't deal with her fidgeting much longer.

"Just spit it out, Red. I can take it. I think we've pretty much covered all the _worst_ insults by now, don't you?" he grumbled but couldn't put quite as much bite into his words as he wanted to.

She gave him a hesitant look, biting her lip. "Well, I know, we're not exactly the best of friends or anything," at that he scoffed loudly to which she just rolled her eyes and continued, "but I would like to well – um – help. If you _want to_, of course."

"Help?" he looked at her incredulously. "Help with what? What are you talking about?"

"Well… if you need someone to teach you how to conjure a Patronus. _Properly_," she shrugged. He still stared at her with a mystified look. For a moment, she thought he was actually softening up to her offer of help but then something in his eyes hardened and he shook himself out of the momentary daze, scoffing.

"Huh, as if I need _your_ help, Weasel! No thanks! You'll probably try and trick me in some of your humiliating Gryffindor ways and get back at me that way. I'd rather get help from Longbottom than you, and _that's_ saying something coming from a Slytherin!"

She scowled. "_Former_ Slytherin! And _former_ Gryffindor here, remember? No need to be hostile, Zabini. I was only trying to offer you my help since you don't seem to run around many people who can actually conjure a Patronus. My bad for trying to be friendly, apparently. Won't happen again." She fixed her eyes back to her book, feeling her gaze could burn through the pages. _He was still such an arse sometimes!_

He stared at her scowling face, realizing how wrong-footed he had responded to a rather harmless request, but he had only reacted instinctively: he didn't want her pity or help with something he was sure he could never do anyway. He didn't want to look like a complete and utter failure in front of her when he wouldn't be able to conjure a Patronus. He knew, because he had tried. Of course, he had tried. Albeit, only a couple of times, but when the stubborn spell simply wouldn't so much as spark no matter how 'happy' a memory he tried to think of, he quickly abandoned the idea of ever trying again, not wanting to humiliate himself any further. Okay, so it was a bit childish giving up so quickly, having not been taught properly in the first place, but he simply couldn't bear the thought of confirming his inability to conjure one. He had heard of dark wizards – Voldemort's followers especially – being unable to. He had never been an outright follower but he had been on the wrong side; lived too long in horror, hate and darkness to have any _true_ happy memories. He had never had any particular _happy_ childhood or youth, nor any real, close relations to build such memories from. Not with his mum (or _any_ of her husbands, for that matter), not the girls he had bedded and dated, not even with his friends in Slytherin. _Had they ever _really _been friends?_, he wondered and thought of his present relationship with Theo.

He shook himself out of his misgivings and stared back at the affronted red-head in front of him, suddenly softening to her earlier act of – what he just now realized was an act of – genuine concern. He wasn't used to have people feeling concern for him like that. And he'd acted like anyone else in his situation probably would have if being handed the concerned offer of help from their former enemy: _like a complete arse!_

He cleared his throat, knowing what he had to do but feeling entirely uneasy about this whole apologetic side of him that had only first begun since his encounter with _her_. _Damn her!_ Yet, he couldn't put as much feeling into it as he once could. For some reason her opinion of him mattered, and, truly, who was he kidding to think anyone else would ever show concern like this for him again? Every instinct in his body told him to run and hide. But he couldn't just run, could he? It would be so easy to run …And why not? It wasn't like he owed her anything. He grumbled and squirmed internally; his pride battling a conscience he thought long gone. But no, he couldn't just run from the issue, run from her like always, when she was the only one – besides Theo perhaps – who actually saw something else than the façade and showed any damn, genuine interest in him besides his money and status, could he now?! _Damn!_

He swallowed his pride, almost choking. "Listen, Weasley," he tried calmly, though her eyes didn't budge from the pages in front of her - which by now should have burned to ash under her gaze, he reckoned. "I was an arse just now. I am – um – _sorry_ about that. I guess I'm not in the habit of receiving any kinds of help – not in the least from a former enemy of mine." He halted, not sure what to say next. 'Forgive me' seemed a little too strong but he was willing to try if it could change her attitude towards him. Gryffindors and Weasleys were famous for holding grudges, after all, but he hoped the Weasel girl at least had a bit more brains than any of her oafish brothers. He gawked her reactions and to his inner relief they seemed to shift.

To say Ginny was surprised to hear his honest, nearly humble tone and outright _apology_ would be the understatement of the year!

She barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping to the floor and looked up from her book, only to be surprised _again_ by being met by his open, almost vulnerable gaze. She had never seen him let his guard down like this before and would never have thought it would happen in front of her of all people! He seemed so genuine in his apology, despite his obvious discomfort and unfamiliarity with the act of apologizing (typically Slytherins). The fact that he didn't lay it on thick was a giveaway for believing his sincerity. Slytherins were infamous for their ability to pretend and manipulate to get their ways, but the way Blaise had spoken and looked at her seemed so raw, nervous and highly unusual without his smirks and teasing looks. Could it be true that the famously cold, inscrutable, former Slytherin had let his guard down, swallowed back his pride (for a moment) and given a sincere apology to a Weasley and former Gryffindor, no less?! She wanted to pinch herself.

"I – I guess it's alright," she stammered, still staring at him in pure shock. "Apology accepted, I mean. I – um –"

Blaise chuckled a bit. "My, my, I never thought to see the day when the infamous, confident and self-righteous Weasley girl would be lost for words." He said it with his usual teasing lilt but without any bite to his words.

Ginny closed her mouth and huffed. "Oh come off it, will you! I was just taken by surprise, that's all." She shot him a curious look. "And it really should be _me_ wondering about _your_ response. _I _never thought to see the day _a_ _Slytherin_ gave a sincere apology – to a Gryffindor _and_ a Weasley, no less?" she pushed back, repeating the baffled words in her head.

Blaise's face contracted into his usual look of pinched disgust. "_Please_! Don't be delusional! That wasn't even the case!" he retorted as if utterly affronted by the mere suggestion.

"No?" she lifted an eyebrow and gave a teasing smirk. He blinked at her, then opened and closed his mouth in a highly uncharacteristic manner before turning away and giving a grumbling huff, cursing under his breath something about 'Bloody Gryffindors!' and 'Damn, self-righteous Weasels!'.

She couldn't help chuckling out loud at his grumpy (you could go as far as call it pouty), somewhat conceding demeanor, though she sensed he wasn't all that affronted by their little, mutual tease. It was just his Slytherin side taking over, being all insulted and defensive. Previously, she would have found it childish and irritating, but now she found it to be rather … _adorable_. Especially, because it was _him_.

"So," she drawled, having slightly sobered but couldn't keep the teasing lilt out of her voice as she smirked at his scowling, downcast face, "when would you like us to start?"

He whipped his head towards her, frowning in complete confusion. "What?"

She shrugged, nonchalantly picking at her nails, her smirk practically growing devious. She was certainly enjoying having the upper hand and rattling the former and ever so stoic, arrogant Slytherin for once. "Why, teaching you how to conjure a Patronus, of course!"

Blaise closed his eyes and groaned, grabbing his head. "_Bloody hell_."

This was going to be a _long_ year.


	9. Teamwork?

"Give it a rest, woman! I've done all I bloody can! No need to go all Gryffindor on me. I clearly can't do it, so: _Give. It. A. Rest!_"

It was an early Sunday afternoon and close to Christmas and most of the students had gone to Hogsmeade for the yearly gift shopping before they returned home for the holidays. The castle was practically abandoned and left in peaceful silence.

Well, _almost_.

The door to the Prefects' Bathroom was thrown open just as Theo passed it. Long, flaming-red hair flashed by him and disappeared just as quickly again, but he didn't have to guess twice who it was.

He gawked in through the open door only to be met by the scowling face of his favorite Slytherin standing alone in the middle of the room, wand in hand, clearly just having concluded some duel or spell of sorts.

Or perhaps not.

"Blimey, Zabini! Are all your Bathroom dates this much fun? Count me in next time!"

"Fuck off, Nott!" Blaise growled and turned around, his back muscles coiling in frustrated anger.

"No, seriously. What happened?" Theo prodded curiously and stepped inside, hands still in pockets.

It had been a relaxing, undisturbed stroll towards the Great Hall for some late Sunday brunch but, honestly, undisturbed Sundays could be so very dull and this happened to be _waaay _more interesting. Definitely not something he'd miss out on.

"_I said_: Go away, Theo!" Blaise bit out between his clenched teeth, starting to collect his stuff by one of the benches, still with his tense back towards him.

Theo shrugged, knowing Blaise's moods, and decided to take a peak around the place since he didn't have access to it himself.

"Nice!" he exclaimed when he spotted just how big and luxurious the bath was compared to the one in the boys' dormitory – which _was not_ a place to be bragged about. Not to speak of: The Prefect boys as well as _the girls_ would all have access to this place …!

_Zabini, you lucky dog!_

Theo would totally have become a Prefect if he didn't have to do all the boring, responsible stuff on the sideline as well. Now, he started to wonder if the pros outweighed the cons, after all.

"Get going, Theo!" Blaise grumbled behind him, ready to leave, "I am in no mood for any escapades with you right now, so scram!"

Seemingly in no hurry, Theo turned around, still eyeing the place enviously, and pulled a face at him. "Aww, hon. And you used to like me _so much_!"

Blaise practically grew fangs, pointing towards the door.

"_GET. OUT._"

"Sure thing, Blaisey-boy," Theo sing-songed and calmly strolled past a searing Blaise who eyed him with intent to kill.

When they had left the Bathroom and were walking down the empty corridors; Theo in his calm swagger, Blaise far more tense and distant, Theo gave a tentative whistle to break the silence.

"_So_. Trouble in paradise again?"

Blaise huffed. "You don't wanna know."

"I see." Theo shot a sidelong glance at his frowning friend who seemed miles off. This was clearly something of worry. He hadn't seen him _this_ somber and lost in thought since before the war when all the shit started to go down.

He tried again. "Not even something for your ol' pal Theo's ears, eh?"

Blaise shot him a dark look that was as warning as it was pleading. Theo knew him well enough to decipher _that _look, but continued the prodding all the same. "That bad, huh?"

Blaise said nothing which Theo took as a yes.

"The Weasley girl, I presume?"

Again Blaise said nothing but seemed more and more like one, giant muscle of tension.

"_Right_," Theo sighed. "So something is _clearly_ going on between the two of you." He shot another glance at his friend to confirm his theory. The frown in Blaise's forehead was set deeper than before which Theo again took as a yes. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but it doesn't exactly seem all that successful. Perhaps you should consider changing method of approach? I know this really wicked trick to get the ladies –"

Blaise snarled, whipping towards him and grabbing Theo forcefully by his collar. "I will not listen to anymore of your shite about women or how to get laid or any of it! I'm sick of it! This has _nothing_ to do with that! _She_ has nothing to do with that! So just shut your big mouth, Theo, alright?!"

Theo stared in surprise into Blaise's seething face and gulped. He had never seen his friend throw a tantrum like this before and much less expected it would ever be thrown _his_ way.

"Easy now, old chap," Theo held up his hands in defeat, giving a nervous chuckle which quickly died seeing Blaise's unchanged look. "I was only trying to ease things up. I was only trying to help."

"Well, you aren't of much help, I can tell you that!" Blaise sneered, less agitated now and withdrew his fist from Theo's shirt, looking down at his coiled hand as if somewhat surprised by his own reaction.

_What's up with him?! _Theo thought. Usually, Blaise never took to his baiting.

"OK, fine. Sure. Whatever you like," he mumbled resigned and buried his hands deep in his pockets as the two of them started down the halls in silence once again.

Blaise rubbed his hands over his head, sighing in frustration. "Listen, sorry about that. It's just – we have this deal, you know? Me and her. She's gonna help with something because she's only one – the only one who _can_. It's a Gryffindor thing and she happens to be the only Gryffindor I can stand. Surprisingly, since she's also _a_ _Weasley_. But that's just how it is. Nothing personal. No need to worry. I'll handle it. I'll get it right. Okay?"

Theo gawked at him in astonishment, never heard this many uncertain words coming out of the mouth of his otherwise so impassive, proud, brooding friend. He instinctively nodded, yet still not getting what was so important to become so agitated and troubled about.

"Sure thing, Blaise. But what is it you need help with – _from a Gryffindor_?"

Blaise sighed, straightened the bag on his shoulder.

"Listen. It's just for a couple of months and then neither you nor I will have to see her again. All is forgotten, okay? In summer, we've graduated and we'll go visit Draco at his family estate in Transylvania and all will be well."

He gave Theo's shoulder a reassuring, yet highly uncharacteristic squeeze and half of a forceful smile before he turned down the corridor leading towards the library, leaving Theo scratching his shaggy head in bewilderment at his friend's strange behavior.

**X**

Ginny growled.

Why had that boy to be so darn stubborn!? What was it with Slytherins all being so bloody defeatist?! It wasn't like she hadn't tried her best to teach him and still he refused to believe he could conjure a Patronus..! Had he even listened to her?! Ugh! It was like he did it on purpose!

She stomped down the halls after having abruptly left the stubborn wizard to his own dealings in the Bathroom, hardly noticing how some of the leftover First Years huddled away from her in fear as she passed them, steaming.

_So they should!_

She felt like a ticking bomb at the moment. Turning around a corner, she nearly sent a First Year boy flying back into the classroom he'd just emerged from. She continued unaffected, scowling.

She didn't have time for this shite! OK, so _she _had been the one to suggest their training, but at least he could be a little grateful instead of just being a bloody child! She wasn't even sure why she'd suggested helping him, in the first place...!

Oh, right, she'd felt pity for him.

Conjuring a Patronus just came natural to her from the beginning, whereas for him it was an obvious struggle. And he obviously was too prideful and stubborn to ask for help himself. Not like he knew a lot of people who could actually teach him. He would _never _ask a teacher – that was for sure! So, being his 'friend' and all, she had offered her help out of the blue, initially finding a small, evil pleasure in watching him squirm a bit; wanting to tease him and give back for all the stuff he'd done in the past. It wasn't fair, really. She knew she was better than this, instead of sinking down to his or any of his fellow Slytherins' level.

Ugh, now she'd just proved another positively Slytherin streak within her, hadn't she?! But then again, she knew how life-saving a Patronus could be in the face of ever-existing evil and the thought of him being entirely alone and defenseless against something as horrific as Dementors had expelled any further thoughts of ulterior motives. She truly wanted to help, she'd realized.

"Miss Weasley?"

She looked up in surprise at the familiar, authoritative voice, ripping her from her deep thoughts.

The Headmistress herself was standing near Ginny's Common Room with Professor Flitwick, arms filled with a bunch of files and books, looking at her with a baffled expression.

Ginny gulped. Had she really looked that riled up?

"Are you alright?" McGonagall inquired. "You seem agitated for some reason? Don't tell me the First Years have been any trouble to you?"

"Oh, no, not at all, Headmistress!" Ginny quickly assured, still reeling from her intense brooding concerning a certain boy wizard.

"Well. Good," McGonagall said, though her sharp gaze still eyed Ginny's flustered appearance. "Actually, I'm glad I've run into you. I was just talking to Professor Flitwick here –" she gestured to the small Professor beside her who smiled kindly up at Ginny, "about arranging a trip to the Shrieking Shack for the First Years in order to relay the story of what happened there in regards to Black. We both agree it would put things in better perspective than in the classroom, and I was actually going to suggest – since you and Mr. Zabini have been so successful in introducing the First Years to Quidditch – that you two should be in charge of the arrangement." Her grey, imposing eyes looked with hopeful formality at Ginny. "What do you say, Miss Weasley? Do you think you and Mr. Zabini would find time to do it? You both seem to be naturals around the First Years and we so do hope the arrangement would help suspend any further prejudice and ill-disposed rumors about the past events on the school."

Ginny did her best not to gawk in utter shock at the Headmistress and Professor looking expectantly at her, while still trying to collect her wits from her dealings with Blaise just moments ago. She hadn't exactly left him on good terms and now McGonagall – er, _the Headmistress_ – threw another bomb, requesting they should spend _even more_ time together..! But how could she even _think_ of refusing when both McGonagall and Flitwick were standing there, looking so expectantly at her!?

She closed her mouth, trying to school her features. No, she just had to accept it and find a way to make temporary peace with Zabini and take matters up with him then. How she would even _begin_ to do that, she'd no idea, but she would have to think about that later.

"I – um – well, of course, Headmistress. I'd be glad to do it and I'm sure Zabini will as well. I'll have to speak to him about it, of course, but I'm sure he will accept the job, too."

McGonagall smiled in her usual tight, formal manner, clearly having expected Ginny to take it.

"Excellent, Miss Weasley! I look forward to hear from you regarding Mr. Zabini's disposition on the subject and then I'll notify you when the arrangement should be held."

She gave a final nod to Ginny and Flitwick sent her a kind smile, giving his generous thanks as well, before they both started down the halls and soon disappeared around a corner.

Ginny stood, watching them leave, looking slightly dumbfounded in the middle of the empty hall outside the Common Room.

_Ginevra Weasley, what have you gotten yourself into?!_


	10. New assignments and stripped encounters

Ginny hadn't been that surprised when McGonagall got in touch with her before she'd even managed to contact the Headmistress herself to convince her that it was all _one big mistake._ Now, every plan of getting rid of Blaise as an assignment partner had been effectively abandoned by McGonagall's request. There was really no backing out now.

Ginny had yet to convey the news of their assignment to Blaise (she hadn't seen him since that botched-up Sunday in the Prefects' Bathroom), but apparently she had to work fast because McGonagall had requested that the trip to the Shrieking Shack – for some reason – should be executed _before_ everyone went home for the holidays.

Nothing to set in the Christmas spirits like a trip to a spooky, old house to relive the tale of a wrongly condemned man spending 12 years in Azkaban only to fight werewolves, Dementors and death sentences when he escaped!

She grunted and looked helplessly down at the note from the Headmistress in her hand.

_Right_. _How would you break this to a person who maybe enjoys the Christmas days the least of all and convince him to go to the Shrieking Shack with__** you**__, his least favorite person at the moment?_

But again: it wasn't like _she_ was the one who was being difficult! If he wasn't so darn proud and stubborn, he would make everything a lot easier … such as approaching him with such a harmless thing as – as this!

_Argh! You're making too much of a deal out of this!_

She wrung the note in her hand and stormed out of her quarters towards the Great Hall in search of the tall, dark-skinned and present bane of her existence, hoping to get the matter over and done with as quickly as possible.

His presence unfortunately proved absent from the Great Hall so she turned, scowling, towards the direction of the library, trying to think of all the places they used to run into each other. She gave a snort. Sort of ironic that when she actually needed to run into that soddin' Slytherin, he was playing hide-and-seek! And what would you know; he wasn't in the library either!

_Where the fuck is he?!_

She seethed and made a row of oblivious, chatty Second Year girls tumble like dominos when she rounded the corner of the main entrance, blasting through their shrieked surprise and trotted towards the outskirts of the Quidditch pitch where the locker rooms lay. When she finally reached her destination, she was about to burst.

Which she more or less did.

Right through the door to the boys' locker room and into a steamy room filled with half-naked males!

It's surprised occupants whipped their heads towards the blistering red-head standing by the entrance as she scanned the room for a certain _snake_ with a glare that promised death to anyone that dared to interfere. Unfazed by their state of undress (she _did_ grow up with six older brothers), she growled when she was unsuccessful in spotting him through the steam and tall heads, opting for her second choice of 'people-searching'.

"_ZABINI!_" she roared and as if out of the blue – or more like fog – a familiar set of wide, towel-clad shoulders on a tall body appeared, calmly swaggering round the corner of the showers and stopped in the middle of the room of astonished Quidditch players.

Blaise lifted a dark eyebrow in mock-question at her appearance, his usual lazy, superior smirk in place. And it was only _then_ that she realized he, too, was buck-ass naked.

Gulping and blinking, she quickly averted her eyes in embarrassment, glad that the steam and anger seeping through her excused the heightened color on her cheeks. Why did his state of undress bother her so? It wasn't like she hadn't seen him naked before.

"_Well_, Weasley. Here we are again," he drawled with a leer, clearly amused by the déjà vu situation – even more so by their added audience. "What brings you to these parts of the woods, pray tell? Other than seizing every opportunity to catch me with my pants down, of course," he grinned, joined by a few snickers around him.

_Ugh, he's unbelievable!_ Mocking her in front of his half-naked team mates! They, on the other hand, seemed less brazen than him and had covered themselves by now. Then again: She had just burst in through the door to the boys' locker room while they were dressing. Not that she'd really thought her plan through. Not that she'd had _any_ plan to begin with. She just sort of went with it. _Nice and mature, as usual_, she thought dryly to herself, regretting ever stepping into the room.

"I – uhm," she stammered, angry embarrassment cursing in her veins as she tried looking _anywhere_ but him, even though there wasn't exactly _less_ 'naked material' to look at in the crowded room.

His smirk grew as he languidly egged her on. "Yes?"

Temper flaring, she burst out, "Oh, sod it, Zabini!", swiveling her hard gaze back at his smug, damp face where his eyebrows rose to amused heights. "I simply need to talk to you! It's urgent and you were no-damn-where to be found so I just opted for my last conclusion, thinking you'd be in here, doing the hula-hoop with your mates, yeah?!"

She prayed she didn't sound or look too desperate, playing it off with an exasperated attitude which she used to deal with her brothers. Crossing her arms across her chest, she whipped her gaze haughtily away, her jaw ticking as she internally begged he would take a hint and not humiliate both of them any further.

"Sure thing, Weasley. You are in need of me and I _always_ abide a lady's needs." He did a theatrical bow and his mates around him snickered at his innuendo-laced antics.

She'd had about enough.

"Cut the crap, Zabini, and get a move on! I don't have all day for you and your mates to stand about and choke on your own testosterone-inflated egos, though I imagine it would be a highly entertaining sight. I'll be outside."

And on that acid note, she turned around and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

**X**

"Damn, that Weasley girl has got a mouth! And _balls_!" Bigsby hollered with laughter from the back, slapping his thighs.

"Not to mention _looks_," someone snickered lewdly.

"I'm weirdly turned on right now and I would totally tap that if she wasn't scary as shite when pissed off," Dawson murmured from the sideline, gazing dazedly towards the slammed door.

"Huh, yeah, that temper sure is as much a mood _stirrer_ as it is a mood _killer_," Wizley commented dryly beside him, continuing to pull on his clothes, and shot a glance at the wizard who was still standing in the middle of the room. "Hey, Blaise?"

"Hm?" Blaise hadn't pulled his eyes from the back of the door to the locker room.

"You know what trouble you are walking into, don't you, mate? 'Cause there's a _whole_ lot of trouble in _that_ _one_."

Blaise merely nodded absent-mindedly, not really paying attention to the continued murmur around him as he went to his locker to put on his clothes.

**X**

"Finally!" Ginny threw up her arms in an exasperated manner when she saw him emerge. "And they say _girls_ spent all their time in the bathroom! What did you do? Melt the mirror with pure vanity?" Crossing her arms, she gave him a dramatic once-over. "_And_ you're clothed! Blimey, Zabini, is this going to be a common occurrence? Don't you think you'll disappoint the ladies?" she sneered sarcastically.

He raised an eyebrow. "Gee, Weasley. Are you always this bitchy or is it just my lucky day?"

Her silent reply came as a glare that could melt pillars and she turned with a huff, starting to walk towards the school in angry strides. Not sure whether to follow or not, he was too curious to why she had burst heedlessly into the boys' locker room like that. Clearly, something was up.

He stepped up beside her, easily matching her quick steps with his long legs.

"So," he prodded, carefully making his tone come off equally indifferent and placid. "You wanted to talk to me? Something urgent you said?"

Ginny slowed down her steps somewhat, the anger rolling off her tense shoulders. Not deigning him a look, she thrust out McGonagall's letter to him as they continued towards the entrance.

"What's this? A letter of pardon?" he inquired with amused sarcasm that earned him another brown-eyed glare.

"A letter from the Headmistress," she grumbled as they turned a corner. "Requesting us to give a student tour 'round the Shrieking Shack before Christmas."

Blaise raised his eyebrows to disbelieving heights for the third time that day. "The Shrieking Shack?" He quickly glanced over the details in the letter, his face distorting as he took in the words. "Oh, bloody hell! Don't tell me we'd have to relay the tale of _soddin' Sirius Black_ to a bunch of First Years?!" he exclaimed, thrusting the letter back into her hands in dramatic disgust.

"Well, I'm telling you," she muttered, feeling just as unwilling about the whole affair.

The glare he gave her screamed _'This is all your fault!'_.

"What the hell did you do, Weasley, to get us such a stinker job? Colluding with Longbottom in the greenhouses again, have we? Setting the Astronomy Tower on fire like one of your dimwit brothers or with one of their juvenile contraptions?"

She stopped in her trail, blistering at his accusations.

"Hey! I'm as little at fault here as you are! And stop talking about my friends and family like that!" She gave him a withering look that he returned in silence, before she finally threw up her hands in admittance. "It's just – it's _McGonagall_, alright?! She happened to be in need of someone to do a show-and-tell of Black's story to the First Years so that they didn't run around concocting false rumors of what happened. And don't ask me why, but you and I happened to be the first ones that came to her mind. Not like I could stop it. You know how insisting she can be without being it." She shot him a knowing glare.

Ignoring it, he answered with an incredulous look. "But they learn all about that in class. I don't see what _we_ can do any better when it comes to getting it into their small brains that what happened in the past, with Black, was _bad_?"

"_As I said_," Ginny sighed, grinding her teeth in irritation, "McGonagall thought it best if we could tell them the story _and_ show them the place where it happened – in order to get it better 'into their small brains' as you so eloquently put it."

He huffed in displeasure but didn't fight the subject further. There was not much they _could_ do.

"Yeah, you and me both, mister," Ginny scowled as she turned to walk on.

They continued uphill in silence and Ginny felt the tension being replaced by another as she remembered how awkwardly they'd parted the last time they saw each other; the whole reason for her desperate banshee-jump on him in the showers, in the first place! She cringed as she thought about it now. She needed to mend that former bridge before going into the Shrieking Shack with him. That much was certain.

"Listen, Blaise, about –," she started then stopped, not sure how to begin. Every stubborn instinct in her told her _she_ wasn't the one who should be apologizing first, but with a mighty force of will she quenched those voices.

"What's wrong with your face, Red?" Blaise peered down at her with something close to repulsed apprehension as if he thought she was going to turn into a Polyjuiced Umbridge at any second.

"I – uhm – about the other day – I–," _Merlin, why is this so hard?!_

He stared skeptically at her for a bit, then something seemed to dawn on him. Apparently he took the hint of where she was going – and what she was failing so miserably at.

He scratched his neck. "Look," he sighed, "I get that you're still pissed off about how we left things last time, but I think we're both equally at fault. You _know_ we are," he contested calmly when he saw her protesting look. "We are like two poles that keep clashing despite the fact that we want the same thing."

_Thing? What thing?_

Ginny opened her mouth in instinctive protest to some obscure, hidden insult within those words but looking into his suddenly serious face, she faltered. Her gaze flickered away from his all too intense and confusing gaze, damning the heat that suddenly rose to her face and her dry throat, almost not daring to ask.

"Oh? And what thing is that?" She cringed. It sounded so pathetic in her ears.

"You know what."

He said it so softly, almost formed as a question accompanied by his curious look, that she barely heard it.

_Huh?_

What could he possibly mean? 'Poles clashing'? 'Wanting things'? Had she unconsciously egged him on at some point that could be misunderstood in any way?!

She wracked her brain, coming up with nothing but their 'less than clothed'-bathroom-slash-locker room encounters. Not her proudest moments, she admitted. But that couldn't be _it_… right?! He despised her as much as she despised him! Though, he _had_ had that predatory look in his eyes both times… but that could as easily be mistaken with smug arrogance and, well, _hello_! It's _Blaise Zabini_; Hogwarts' official player _numero uno_, we're talking about here! He's cold smugness incarnated; a _born_ predator and womanizer. No female specimen could see herself safe in his presence.

However, _now_ – if _this_ was flirting then it seemed utterly unlike him! And what was it with the implications that she wanted – _whatever_ he wanted, too..? _Ugh_! Couldn't he just make up his mind? It was damn frustrating being stared at like that; as if _she_ knew the answer to the whole damn universe!

She gulped, trying desperately to think of anything than what her treacherous mind concocted under his gaze. She didn't dare meeting it.

"Uhm, conjuring a Patronus?" she tried half-imploring, half-hoping that _that_ was what he meant and _not_ what she thought it meant.

A new, painfully strained silence stretched between them. She could practically hear a pin drop somewhere.

"Yeah. Conjuring a Patronus," he finally said, slowly, as if tasting the words and surprised at finding the taste bitter. He stared stiffly ahead in a weird, absent-minded fashion. Whatever guard he had momentarily taken down, it was certainly back at full force.

Ginny seriously couldn't figure this boy out!

And did she note a hint of disappointment in his voice? And why was she feeling disappointed herself? Disappointed that he, for once, hadn't mocked or contested her?

An unknown feeling swirled inside her, inflating the bubble of self-conflicted emotions surrounding her relationship with him until she felt it close to bursting. Of _what_ and _why,_ she couldn't tell. She wasn't even sure she wanted to know.

The awkward silence persisted; as if both of them desperately were trying to find a way to pick up the cue but only came up short, snapping their mouths shut.

Eventually the clearing of his throat made them both flinch, and they realized they had reached the Entrance Hall where students were now shuffling to and fro in larger groups in time for dinner in the Great Hall.

Simultaneously stopping and awkwardly turning towards each other, Blaise spoke first.

"Listen, Weasley–," he halted momentarily as if unsure of what to say then cleared his throat again. She didn't think she could ever get use to the sight of a _wavering_ Blaise. "Maybe we should check out the place first, huh? See how we might plan the tour so that we don't have to stay there too long and risk scaring the kids too witless to go home for Christmas, yeah?"

A bunch of Fifth Years went close by them, shooting them curious glances which suddenly made him right himself into his usual, bored swagger.

"Sounds fine by me," she shrugged, slightly distracted.

Blaise seemed relieved by her curt reply, giving a final nod as if anxious to get it over with or simply to get away from her. She couldn't really tell anymore.

"Good. Meet me outside by the Stone Circle, Tuesday after lunch. I know a short cut."

And before she had time to respond he was gone, disappeared into the now crowded, noisy Great Hall and once again left her standing open-mouthed and bewildered.

_Bloody Slytherin!_


	11. Expecto Patronum

"You can't be serious!" Ginny exclaimed when she saw where Blaise had led them, the Tuesday they had agreed to meet.

He sent her a smug smile. "Oh, _but I am_. It's much quicker this way."

"Yeah, and a lot dirtier," she muttered under her breath, which he apparently caught as he gave a low chuckle (probably finding an innuendo in that somewhere, _the perv_) and gestured down the black hole under the momentarily petrified Whomping Willow, throwing out his hand in mock-courtesy.

"Ladies first."

He received a searing scowl but she complied. Ginny Weasley was never one to back down from a challenge and a little dirt didn't throw her off, after all. Still, a little warning ahead would have been nice, she scoffed inwardly, looking down her new sweater, but what could you expect from a former Slytherin?

Once down the narrow hole, she dusted off the dirt the best she could (though the task seemed utterly futile) and took a quick look around the cave-like surroundings, immediately thinking of Harry, Ron and Hermione's third year going down here ... Of Lupin's hiding place when in transformation. She shuddered in the dank cold.

Blaise followed behind her only seconds later.

"This way," he said, his already lit wand guiding them into the clammy darkness, leading to a wider stretch that gave away the visibly human-made and frequented path leading to Hogsmeade. She had never thought of taking this way before, but, apparently, others had and so had Blaise, it seemed. It came as somewhat a surprise since she'd never taken him for a person to place his aristocratic genes anywhere near such a dirty, humid place just for a short-cut, but, on the other hand, he _was_ a Slytherin and probably had been dragged along Draco's gang once or twice on some of their shady affairs.

Bending to look into the blackness of the opening, Blaise mumbled something under his breath. "There should be some torches here – ah!"

A wordless swipe from his wand lighted a torch on the one side of cave-like wall and the magic quickly spiraled onwards, igniting the next one a couple of meters away and so on, throwing a sparse light on the nearest surroundings of each torch, deepening the view of the tunnel.

"It should cut the walk to Hogsmeade about twenty minutes short, give or take, but even less to the Shrieking Shack because it will lead us right to it," he stated matter-of-factly, his head directed towards the tunnel.

She merely nodded and they started off in unison.

The crooked tunnel stretched and narrowed like the Parisian catacombs, the low, uneven archways making their necks give the necessary duck every now and then (well, mostly Blaise, with his tall form), while the darkness and dankness got heavier, the atmosphere becoming close to claustrophobic. It didn't help that their walk was done in utter silence. Ginny stumbled every now and then over a root or a rock in the sparsely lighted dark, walking shoulder to shoulder with Blaise – even bumping into him a couple of times in the cramped, narrowed space. After about ten minutes of slightly rugged walk, she had no idea how she must look, feeling as if at least half a bucket of dirt, roots and spiders clung to her skin, hair and clothes.

She shot a look at Blaise and grumbled. Even in the darkness, his dark skin and attire gave nothing away, looking as refined and polished as ever. Yet, his somewhat hunched body in the low tunnel made him seem … well, not like him. Less intimidating. And there was something about his face, even from this angle. A haunted, numb look she had only seen in momentary flashes before.

"You do know they still haven't caught all of the Dementors yet, right?" he suddenly said in a somber tone.

"What?!" she squeaked, looking up at him wide-eyed, their surroundings only adding to her alarm. Of all times and places he had to say a thing like _that_ _– here_!?

"Yeah," he continued darkly, not meeting her gaze as an involuntary tremor ran down his neck. "They say the ones not caught still roam the places of Dark Magic; where … _You-Know-Who _spent most of his 'cozy-time'. Rumor has it one or two have been spotted in Transylvania. Though, it's just rumors." Even though Draco _had_ confirmed sightings in Bulgaria, but he didn't want to tell her that.

Ginny gawked at the sculpted profile of the former Slytherin walking beside her, almost hoping to see that he was pulling her leg or something, but his solemn face, lighted only by the seldom torch in the distant, filled her with dread of his obvious truthfulness.

Dementors. She gulped. But _how_? Hadn't the Ministry and the Aurors been out there? Ron and Harry must know of this. They would be the first ones to go out in search of them, she was sure of it!

… Wasn't she?

"Of course, they haven't caught all of the Death Eaters yet, either," Blaise stated in a ambiguous tone as he kicked a random stone along the path.

Ginny nodded glumly. "Yeah, I've heard." Reading about sporadic sightings of former, less known Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathizers in Eastern Europe, South Africa and South America in the Prophet had been enough to chill her blood during the hot summer holidays.

"I don't know why it comes as such a surprise to people," he continued with a hard, bitter edge to his voice, as if speaking more to himself than to her. "It is _always_ like that right after a war; not all sunshine and fucking flowers just because it has _officially_ ended. There is always going to be an uncomfortable aftermath, always some who manage to escape the noose, always some who wants revenge or profiteers from the chaos. Even the supposedly 'good guys'. No one comes out 'the hero' in war. Nothing is black and white. Just look at the second Muggle war; the Nazis that managed to flee to South Africa, even with help of the Americans, and live like parasites for decades before they were caught. The Russians' continued run of the concentration camps, killing thousands, mostly kids and old people, simply because they felt they had the right. The self-justified, public punishments of people who had been too weak, too scared to resist the Nazis. People who simply tried to survive the war."

The silence left in the wake of Blaise's impassioned speech was thicker than the grave, interrupted only by the soft flicker of the lit torches and muffled sounds of their footsteps on the soft ground.

Ginny dared a glance at the wizard beside her.

She couldn't recall she had ever heard him say this much before, and she was once again stunned by the scope of his intelligence and obvious references to a world she thought he despised. More so by the genuine emotion caught in his throat. The obvious implication to his own situation and so many others like him who had been too scared to fight Voldemort, too weak to risk their loved ones if they hadn't joined. Most people believed Death Eaters to be as bat-shit crazy as Bellatrix, as bloodthirsty as Greyback, as sadistic as the Carrows or as delusional as the Malfoys. It was so easy to condemn everyone else alongside the closest and most known followers of Voldemort, despite most of the lesser known wizard families had been threatened into coercion and submission and hardly could be called _Death Eaters_. The articles relaying this sensitive subject had steadily been popping up in the wizarding newspapers every now and then - despite immediate outrage and protests against such a notion. It was still too soon to publicly sympathize or pardon _anyone_ who had been connected to the wrong side. Those who suggested the former were often the most brassy, truth-seeking (and infamous) of journalists, and those who held the latter sympathies were often people connected to the accused, having to witness their shunning and its consequences on a daily basis.

Most people just wanted the black and white justice that so often got caught up in … feelings. There was _so much_ anger. Understandably so.

Personally and morally, Ginny was at a loss. Having been in the middle of the storm, facing the worst of wizarding criminals and human beings, and in the question of survival of herself, her family and friends, she had been forced to separate friends from foes. The heroes from the villains. Now, trying to function in the uncomfortable, chaotic aftermath of war - as Blaise so bitterly, sarcastically, yet accurately put it – she, like so many else who had been on the 'good side', was faced with a much more intricate truth of the past and the present. During Voldemort's rise, simply knowing who was good and who was bad was enough. Now, after his fall, it didn't matter anymore. No one got off scot-free or unscathed from their responsibilities and actions, no matter your side in the war.

Yet, they had just been kids caught in a maelstrom. The way war ripped away innocence was indescribable. It had carved deep, permanent scars in all of them and she never wished for her own, future children to one day experience the same. It could all so easily happen again if they weren't careful not to let their rage and hatred against those who'd wronged them fester and grow into something they couldn't control. Yes, pardon for those atrocities seemed too easy, too inappropriate at the moment but the 'eye for an eye'-rhetoric seemed the most barbaric of solutions. Once they went down _that_ road everything they'd fought for in the war would be lost. And who would they be then?

Realizing how cold and numb her fingers had become in the frosty underground dankness, she rubbed them together, trying to chafe some warmth into them. Blaise still hadn't looked at her, staring straight ahead, but seemed to sense her cold discomfort in the stillness of the tunnels.

"Almost there," he simply said.

His voice brought her mind back to the present and she looked up at his face as if seeing it in a new sort of light.

It showed both defeat and determination, wear and youth in a rare mix for such a young, vital man. His height and bearing gave off an obvious, aristocratic upbringing with a streak of arrogance, but presently and most recently, his broad shoulders had seemed slightly hunched, his lean muscles tense, the aura of arrogance turned into defensive bitterness, his face haunted by the things he had seen during the war that she couldn't even imagine. The mirror had cracked within; he was decaying and he knew it, yet trying so hard to hold it off, to keep it at bay, just like he had with the destructive forces of Voldemort. There was still fight in him, there always had been it seemed, but the fight was partly built on the acceptance of certain destruction. And he was all alone fighting it.

Ginny blinked, her heart doing an extra skip.

He was so beautiful, so devastatingly beautiful and tragic at the same time that for a moment her heart ached for him - with something more than pity. She didn't know what or why but in that moment she decided she _wouldn't_ be one of those people who immediately shunned all those who had been on the wrong side - 'had' being the operative word - and that Blaise deserved a chance to not be fighting alone anymore. Not in a world that was all _for_ humanity. And Blaise was human, she realized (it felt like a mental slap; as if she hadn't _really_ thought so before). So painstakingly human here in the sparsely lighted, mouldy darkness of the tunnels, walking side by side with her; she who was painted more as a 'war hero' than a human herself. _She_ wasn't invulnerable either. She couldn't carry the whole world on her shoulders anymore than he could, though it felt like that sometimes.

Sure, he wasn't one to have suffered the worst – neither had she – but that didn't mean he had experienced anything _good_ either. It had been war, after all. No one escaped unharmed. He might have used cruelty towards her and her friends once, taunted with Dark Magic back when they were still all kids and didn't know what would come, but she couldn't imagine him – seeing him in this light; a young soul withered beyond years – as one to have used Dark Magic with volition and glee when Voldemort's power rose. In her mind, she saw him bent and coerced, threatened and tortured, subdued and forced. Whatever he had done to survive she couldn't think of it any longer and hate him without seeing his face as it was now; downtrodden and remorseful, filled with shame and self-hate. The cracked mirror reflecting in his eyes in the light of the torches.

No, she couldn't hate him. She wasn't delusional either. She just … _saw him_. For the first time.

Strange. As if their relationship so far had built up to this very dawning moment.

"Blaise?" she prompted softly, his name having a whole new taste and meaning rolling off her tongue.

He didn't look at her but kept a concentrated gaze directed ahead of him. "Hm?"

"Do you –," she choked on the words, "do you ever think it.. will get better?"

He froze, whipping his head towards her. "I –," He opened his mouth but nothing else came out as he gave her a confused, scrutinizing look, then drew his lips into a tight line as he seemed to be thinking hard. After some silence, he cast his head down in a defeatist manner. "I don't know, honestly," he sighed and looked at her again, eyes fighting the conflicting emotions but not quite succeeding. "I think it will take time. Those.. _wounds_ won't heal like any other wound. Everything at the moment seems to be a reminder of everything – everything _bad_ \- and keeps ripping it up. I –," he faltered momentarily and shifted on his feet in the hollow dark. "We're all trying to heal, aren't we? I mean, I guess we all hope it will get better and maybe it will, but we can't be sure, can we?" He stated the last one as if it was more a rhetoric question than an actual one; the bittersweet, harrowing acceptance emanating from it.

She stared back at him, trying to come up with a retort somehow but failed. She felt pathetic, really. _He was right_. Her unfailing optimism before the war had suffered a fatal crack with Fred's death and what once had been so second-nature to her was now a sad smile in face of reality. She wasn't sure if she would ever return to her old self, if she would ever _truly_ heal, but she tried – _she had to!_ – even if she began wondering whether she would ever be happy again.

She suddenly had to look away, feeling tears forming in her eyes and not wanting him to see them. However, he too had averted his gaze as if he knew this, the grave expression on his face even more pronounced when she had collected herself and shot him a glance when they started moving again in silence.

Finally, a well-needed distraction came in the shape of the nether structures and pillars of an old house surrounding them; a wobbly staircase by the end of the tunnel leading up to a hole in wooden floor where natural light dimmed thinly down from above.

Blaise crawled up first and she followed. Lifting herself up onto the dirty, dust-covered floorboard of the Shrieking Shack, she couldn't help but notice how he staunchly avoided touching her in any way possible and she didn't know whether to feel disappointed or relieved about that.

Standing up beside him, she felt her battle senses preparing for any potential dangers lurking in the dark, howling corners of the house, their recent conversation of Dementors still fresh in memory. She pulled out her wand to have it ready, just in case. Blaise merely shot a look at her motion and then nodded as he slightly raised his own and gestured towards the staircase beside them. She followed as he stepped towards it, battle stance subtly exuding from his body as well as they silently crept up the creaking, windy stairs to the third floor and came upon the room where Harry had met his godfather in the flesh.

Blaise's deep, velvety voice was the first to break the dust-infused air as they stood by the threshold looking into the room, thrown in an ochre-colored light either from the late afternoon sun or the stained, mottled sheets that covered the decrepit windows.

"Well. It's doesn't seem as spooky as it once did, does it?"

She felt obliged to agree. Having lived through the hell of a war, the once so ominous aura of the Shrieking Shack held little eeriness in her eyes now when faced with it. Rather than haunted it seemed lonely in its desertion, the creaking caused by the wind howling through its shabby, unprotected structure rather than potential Dark beings roaming the place. The layers of undisturbed dust on every horizontal surface and object told that there hadn't been anyone here for a long time; not man, ghost or creature. War had seen to that.

"So," she finally spoke, still glancing around the room. "You think we should just bring them here and tell how it all went down and then call it a day?"

"Hm?" he hummed distractedly then seemed to focus in on her question. "Oh, yes, let's. I've no intention of exploring this house any further," he grimaced as he gave a mild shudder that reminded her of the Blaise she knew, pocketed his wand and stepped into the room with a less tense demeanor.

She mirrored his motions and went to the old, battered chaiselong in the corner of the room. Her brother had sat there once, with a torn-up leg, screaming for his stupid rat that turned out to be none other than the Voldemort sycophant and Gryffindor-traitor Peter Pettigrew. She grimaced and shuddered at the memory of having that bastard of an Animagus _as_ _a pet_ in the family for so long; of occupying the same space as him, blissfully unaware that they had a killer and a Death Eater in their mix.

"How long do you think?"

Now it was _her_ turn to be distracted. "Hm?" She turned towards Blaise who stood by the stained, partly broken windows at the other end of the room, trying to have a peek out through the rotting shutters covering them.

"How long do you think it'll take? _This_. Telling the story of 'Black's Bad Luck' and all that crap," Blaise gestured mockingly, a pungent note to his voice that spoke _Slytherin_ in every, familiar capacity but which barely hid the obvious weariness in his voice too.

She knew he couldn't care less about Sirius or coming here and telling his story to the First Years, but as with everything else he had done this term he did as requested. She suspected he likely felt it necessary to try and restore _some_ of his dignity and not do anything to jeopardize his reputation or taint it any further by doing everything by the book. Prefect duties, Quidditch introductions, asking for Patronus lessons and now this. Despite the subtle discomfort and unwillingness to partake in such tasks and activities were written in his arrogant, carved features, he actually made somewhat of an effort to be on the good side of things. Everything had been for the sole purpose of trying to become _someone_ _other_ than an Ex-Death Eater; of establishing something of a name again, a life and a future without being a total outcast for the rest of his life.

Once she would have called him an outright ass-kisser; for greasing his way into the good graces of the winning side of the war, thinking he could escape judgment and punishment that easily.

Now she knew better.

He didn't show it – at least, he took great effort in order _not to_ – but he was weary to the bone. He didn't want anyone's hate or pity. He just wanted to be left alone and did so by building a perfect image around himself of the 'ex-villain' ready to atone for his sins. His Slytherin side coming of great use here, of course (she doubted any other House was made for such spin doctoring skills) – maybe of _too_ good use, since he almost did himself in while doing it. All his lazy, bored arrogance and swaggering indifference didn't fool her anymore. The question surrounding regret of one's actions in times of war was not as black-and-white as it appeared to be; she knew (and he would probably admit it too) that he most likely would have done everything the same, despite _wanting _to do it differently but simply being too scared otherwise. But she knew that this outer image of silent shame and repentance and that awkward old coat of bored arrogance he put on, something new and something old, were more than just a part of him. They were, most importantly and in true Slytherin fashion, his safeguards against condemnation, blame and humiliation; clinging to his own damn, stubborn self-reliance; his last pillar of pride left, while blatantly disregarding and shoving away his own feelings. Far away - for no one to see.

Only, _she_ had seen and he _knew_. They both knew. And she wondered if that was what simultaneously scared him away and drew him to her throughout their chance encounters, confusing her so by his contradictory behavior? And if it was the same with her?

"_Helloo_? Weasley?" Long, strong, elegant fingers snapped across her field of vision. "Are you in there or should I be worried you've spent too much time with Loony Lovegood?"

Snapping her out of her reverie, she almost squeaked when she found the tall, former Slytherin standing right in front of her, shooting her a slightly arrogant, suspicious look that could be mistaken for worry if it hadn't come from him.

She looked away. "I'm, um, fine," she mumbled and forced her distracted brain to concentrate on where they were and why they were here.

_Right, Ginny, focus._

Taking a step away, physically distancing herself from Blaise who was still looking at her with an odd expression, she schooled her features to those she had almost perfected during the last couple of months as Head Girl when handling the inquisitive, younger students.

"Right," she cleared her throat and pulled forth a small notebook and a pen from her shoulder bag, having prepared for this likelihood and their forthcoming trip. She didn't even bother mentally slapping herself for being so painfully like Hermione in this moment; since becoming Head Girl she had started to acknowledge that some of her friend's vices from school proved to be virtues in the end. Learning it the hard way, no less, and it didn't help that she was somewhat ashamed to have taunted Hermione prior for her overly studious and prudent tendencies. Not that she had ever admitted that to Hermione (though she probably should).

"I guess we should start by going over Peter Pettigrew's betrayal of the Potters and how Sirius ended up in Azkaban," she started scribbling down, then halted, looking up in contemplation. "Or should we begin with the Black family and their history in order to explain how Sirius was even more mixed up with the wrong crowd _before_ he met James? Or is that biting off more than we can chew given _how_ complex their family tree is?"

Blaise snorted beside her.

"Gee, Weasley, you're beginning to sound awfully like your bloody Mud– Muggle friend," he commented wryly, however the too close stumble across the 'M' word didn't escape any of them and an awkward, incensed silence ensured.

Ginny snapped her lips shut into a thin, angry line from verbally chastising him and instead sent him a scathing look, while he was wise enough to look away, at least, moderately ashamed.

"_Right_," she grounded out between her teeth, making him flinch, as she viciously scribbled down on her notepad. "Starting with Pettigrew it is."

Scribbling a couple of angry notes to herself about contacting McGonagall before long in order to set a date for the trip, she closed the notebook with more force than necessary and stuffed it into her bag.

Blaise was still standing in silence a couple of feet from her, hands buried in his pockets and shoulders tense. She couldn't quite look at him yet.

"Sorry," he muttered lowly but it was clearly meant for her to hear and it sounded more genuine than anything she had ever heard him say.

The anger seeped from her shoulders and she shot him a scrutinizing glance. He _did_ look rather remorseful standing like that, she thought to herself.

"It's – alright," she sighed. "Just... don't say that word. _Ever_ again."

He merely nodded pensively and that seemed enough. For now. After all, he hadn't actually _said_ the word, but the quick correction might just be because he was in her presence. Though, given his history with blood supremacy, she couldn't quite blame him if he slipped once, but if he did it again she didn't think she would be quite as forgiving. She couldn't help a sliver of disappointment attaching itself to her heart. She _had_ hoped he had let go of his old beliefs. But who was she kidding? To change the stripes of the tiger this soon after the war would be a bloody miracle!

"Is it me or is it suddenly colder in here than before?" Blaise's voice broke through the tension and her musings like a knife, his whole body giving a quick tremor as he looked around towards the windows for the source, probably thinking it was a change of weather.

Then a plain, physical shiver went through the both of them, like a clammy hand running from the back of the neck and right down the spine.

Ginny gulped.

That wasn't just any cold draft and it certainly wasn't caused by a change of weather. She knew this cold and what followed; this suffocating stillness of icy death surrounding them and advancing listlessly, yet all the more disturbingly.

Subconsciously, she wrapped her hand around her wand in her pocket and turned to take a defensive stance towards the door behind her. Blaise seemed confused and oblivious to the cause of her sudden tense stature, yet stepped towards her turned back, probably about to say something about her acting like a paranoid house elf – when the Dementor appeared out of the dark before them.

Blaise's large, long-fingered hand clamped painfully down on her upper arm, and she felt the fear and panic surging from him as he instinctively pulled her backwards, making her stand close to his body as they stared in terror at the frightful thing before them.

The Dementor advanced with a sickening, silent grace, rendering everything in slow motion. Even the smallest speck of dusts hovered frozen in the air as the creature seemed to fill the entire room with its ghostly, hooded presence of death and blackness, blocking them from their only exit point out the room – unless they were to throw themselves out from the shuttered windows from third floor. Yet, the Dementor was already too close, too quick for the senses to respond properly in time and before Ginny had even contemplated how they could escape through the windows behind them, the horrifying, faceless being had opened its – _mouth_ and started … sucking.

Ginny felt as if her lungs were being pierced with icicles and languidly torn out from her body as the Dementor feasted on every last happy feeling she had. She gasped in helpless horror as she tried to resist and back away with Blaise still in tow close beside her. She managed to shoot a glance at him just as the Dementor's attention turned, feeling her heart giving a sickening lurch. He had his head thrown back in a gruesome angle and his mouth opened in a voiceless scream as the Dementor hovered above him like a parasite.

_He's succumbing too quickly!_, she thought in panic, her muddled, happiness-depraved mind and body desperately trying to form the priced memory of her family – Mum, Dad, Percy, Bill, Charlie, Ron, George…Fred – _everyone_ gathered at the Burrow, happy and laughing, but the memory wouldn't stick and she grabbed for her wand in her pocket, she fumbled and suddenly stumbled backwards, Blaise – still clinging to her arm with a surprising strength considering everything – going down with her and they fell to the floor and he practically fell _on_ her, momentarily breaking the Dementor's occupation with him and – _oh Merlin_ – it was coming back to her!

_No! Nononono! This can't be happening!, _Ginny screamed inside her head at her own foolishness; for letting her guard down enough to not feel it before it happened, as they scrambled on the floor and she stared in horror into the hooded, sucking emptiness so close, _so close_ above her and felt like she was being drained dry, succumbing to the numbness.

So far gone, she hardly registered how Blaise grunting came about half on top of her and managed to push himself up and off her somewhat, severely weakened however, yet with the Dementor momentarily occupied with her he had just enough time to pull out his wand and in a surprising last bout of strength, he half-turned, crouching almost protectively over her on the floor, wand raised with trembling determination towards the dark, cloaked creature above them.

Crucial seconds that felt like eternities.

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!_"

And then everything happened at once and in slow motion, as if in a dream. A dream too real to be a dream.

In the midst of her near unconscious state, Ginny saw the most beautiful panther she had ever seen springing gracefully from Blaise's wand, fiercely and swiftly like only a feline predator could, attacking the Dementor in a blast of pulsing silver-blue light, fleetingly blinding them all as the Patronus hit the recoiling creature, forcing it backwards and vehemently chased it away out through the door, the black and still coldness disappearing with it, giving way for the last rays of light from the afternoon sun through the bolted windows of the room.

Once gone, the specks of dust finally settled and the floating, incandescent panther calmly returned to its two breathless, stunned onlookers with an all too familiar, bored look that spoke _'Well, that wasn't so hard'_, sat down and started licking its silvery paws like a content kitten who had just taken down its prey.

_What the –?!_


	12. A cup of hot cocoa and infamy

The silence pervaded; not even a breath was heard, until Ginny slowly realized Blaise was still painfully gripping her arm in his half-shielding position over her on the dirty floor.

Wiggling a bit in discomfort she pulled him out of his stupor, making him practically bolt from the floor with an expression painted in obvious shock and fatigue.

He looked down in disbelief and wonder at his wand still clenched in his hand and then to the panther hovering in front of him, licking its 'fur' in an oddly serene fashion despite of what had just happened.

"What just – I –," Blaise stammered, not taking his eyes from his wand or the sight in front of him as if it was a mirage that would disappear in any minute if he blinked.

"Well," Ginny breathed in relief, feeling quite physically exhausted herself as she stood up and dusted herself unsuccessfully off. "It seems you _can_ conjure a Patronus, after all, Zabini. All your fears of performance have been in vain," she stated half-jokingly until she saw his face, still covered in shock – and obvious fear. Sure, she had been dead-afraid herself when they came upon the Dementor (or rather when the Dementor came upon _them_!) but having used the Patronus more than couple of times already, she was more acquainted with the after-shock.

Still, it had been close. _Too_ close this time.

She shuddered and cringed. Once again she had put her foot in her stupid mouth, not considering Blaise's first-time handling of such vile creatures.

Sobering, she quickly stepped forward, gently touching his rigid arm and felt him flinch as he shifted his gaze to hers, his widened pupils making his otherwise dark-brown eyes look entirely black. She felt her heart clench for a second time that day.

"Blaise, you've done good. _More_ than good, in fact. It was bloody impressive that you were able to not _only_ conjure a Patronus charm but a corporeal one at that! Few wizards have been able to do so in first try." When he continued to appear unresponsive, Ginny worried her lip and tried another approach. "We are alright, Blaise. We are alright. See?" she spoke softly, peering up at him.

She watched his Adam's apple bob nervously along his long, elegant neck as he stared down into her face, apparently still trying to come to terms with what had happened. Then he averted his gaze, giving a slight, stiff nod and shot a side-glance at the Patronus which now sat perfectly still, except the occasional swipe of its tail, watching him with interest.

She followed his gaze and understood why.

"Don't worry; you'll see it again."

She gave him a small smile, as he hesitantly directed his wand at it, not taking his eyes away from the panther as if taking in every single detail of it. The panther rose immediately at the silent gesture and took a couple of graceful leaps before it turned into the familiar silver-blue, smoke-like form of the charm and disappeared into the tip of his wand. Staring down at it in wonder for a couple of seconds, he quickly shook himself somewhat from his daze and pocketed the wand.

Realizing she still had her hand on his arm, Ginny quickly withdrew it and glanced down at her watch.

"Well, we still have an hour or so left before next class. We could take a quick trip to Honeydukes for some chocolate. It will help for any eventual after-effects of a Dementor attack." _Okay, that _was_ practically said in Hermione's voice_, she scowled internally but Blaise hardly noticed, his absent-minded demeanor having returned. Perhaps he had taken a bit worse to the attack than she had expected.

Unable to help herself, she took his arm again in a friendly, reassuring gesture and though she felt a slight recoil of surprise in the taught muscles beneath the luxurious fabric she held on and guided him out of the stifling room, down the creaking stairs and out of the house into the frosty and rather barren late-autumn landscape.

In the not so far distant lay the familiar little clutter of houses that made Hogsmeade village. The wind had moved on and smoke rose cozily and undisturbed up from the chimneys, with the windows lit, shimmering slightly from the occupied rooms inside. She could practically taste the spiced, hot chocolate on her tongue.

Holding on to that sensation and breathing in the icy, invigorating air, she felt the after-effects of the incident slowly evaporating with her exhaling breath, coming out in puffs of white smoke.

"Come on," she said with a slightly forced cheer, fastening the House scarf around her neck, still gently taking the lead. His response was somewhat subdued as he idly trailed after her, their boots scraping against the hard ground as they went over the small hills to the path that led to the village. The peopled atmosphere enveloped her like a warm, familiar glove as soon as they reached in between the houses and she basked in its warmth, the nostalgic memory of her home at the Burrow shimmering in the air. She looked back at Blaise trailing behind her, wondering how his home life was like and whether he thought of it as fondly as she did of hers. Somehow, she highly doubted it.

Stopping short in front of Honeydukes, she spotted the hoard of people inside shuffling between the stands of candy and suddenly had second thoughts, thinking Blaise probably wasn't feeling particularly people-friendly at the moment – and, _honestly_, neither was she, now looking inside the cramped shop of boisterous customers and squeaking children.

"Ah, well, Honeydukes seems a bit crowded at the moment," she stammered, half-smiling, wincing at her own sudden nervousness.

Looking quickly around she spotted The Three Broomsticks and the sight of the cozy, lit-up little inn sent a relieved flare of familiarity through her rather weary bones and heavy limbs. The Dementor incident had taken its toll on her, too – more than she'd expected, actually, and the brisk, frosty walk from the Shrieking Shack had exhausted her entire being.

She gave a small sigh and gestured over her shoulder to Blaise.

"Come on, let's try The Three Broomsticks instead. I'm sure Madam Rosmerta has her hot cocoa ready for us. I'm just dying for a cuppa!" she grinned despite the cold and her weariness – or perhaps _because_ of it – and he responded with a somewhat stunned, owlish look at her cheeriness but followed nonetheless as she started heading towards the pub. She just hoped there wouldn't be anyone there from school. She really didn't have the energy for any awkward socializing at the moment and she couldn't imagine Blaise did either.

They eventually reached the pub and entered, an invisible coverlet of bonfire-induced warmth hitting their half-frozen faces as soon as they opened the heavy door. Chattering voices were heard in the background and the rustling of pints and mugs by the bar, but it was one of the pub's more quiet days it seemed since it was hardly full.

She stepped fully inside, Blaise right behind her, and quickly spotted a secluded, people-free spot in one of the back corners. Turning to Blaise, she gestured towards the spot. "You go sit down over there. I'll just get our drinks and be back in a jiffy."

There was a minuscule pull by the corner of his wide mouth as he stared back at her but it was so slight that she would hardly call it a smirk. Still, for a second there, life came back into his eyes so that was something. He turned his head to the place in the corner she was gesturing towards and simply headed towards it without another response, his tall, broad-shouldered being slightly and unnaturally hunched – like he just wanted to disappear.

His presence did _not_ go unnoticed, however. Several of the inn's few occupants had lifted their gaze when Ginny and Blaise first entered and clearly recognized the two, new guests and the bubbly chatter had turned into a suspicious whisper as they none-so-subtly gestured towards the two of them. They were, after all, '_celebrities_' now. One famous, one _in_famous.

Ginny cringed and hurried up to the bar to order their drinks, hoping no one would make a fuss or announce their presence. She really couldn't deal with any hero-worship or slander, on either of their behalves, right now. She _had_ noticed how Blaise had gotten some rather disturbing looks on his way down to their table and that people didn't bother to lower their voices while spewing vicious words about him as he passed. With his back turned she couldn't see how much it affected him, but the tension around his shoulders didn't _lessen_ – that was for certain.

Ginny seethed, feeling a terrible need to whip some sense into those insensitive nitwits who dared speaking like that. But what had she expected, really? Entering a popular place like The Three Broomsticks, expecting _privacy_?!

As she got hold of their warm mugs of cocoa, she mentally berated herself for being such an idiot and exposing Blaise to such a toxic environment. Walking down towards their table, balancing the hot mugs in her semi-numb hands, she did however manage to shoot icy daggers at those pub guests she had spotted sending slurs in Blaise's direction. They quickly shut their gobs and looked away from her fiery glance as she walked by them, but no sooner had she passed before they stuck their heads together again, gossiping away. She all but growled.

Reaching their secluded corner, she put down the mugs and settled in the worn, high-backed leather seat opposite Blaise who still hadn't spoken or acted his usual self. He hardly looked at her. Anyway, she couldn't deal with his off-behavior before she had gotten her blood running again and dove eagerly for her mug. Sipping her hot cocoa, letting the familiar, creamy warmth and spices flow through her system, she soaked in the toasty heat of the pub through her rather thin layers of clothing, sparking life in her numb fingers.

She cast a second glance at Blaise who still sat stone-faced and quiet and she wondered briefly about what memory he had managed to produce to conjure the Patronus charm, but opted not to spring her inquisitive eagerness on him just yet, given his solemn stupor still lingered as after-effects of the Dementor encounter. Naturally. Still, shouldn't he be somewhat more pleased that he had been able to conjure one – and a powerful one at that! At the moment, he was just one brooding line away from outright sulking! He hadn't even touched his cocoa yet, but was just stirring it absent-mindedly, staring down into the brown, swirling pool, getting lost in it. Perhaps, it was just typically Slytherin to be a chronic killjoy in all aspects of life; they simply couldn't help themselves.

"Drink, Blaise," she bid him, hoping to spur him into action instead of staying in this highly unnerving, catatonic state he had been in since leaving the Shrieking Shack. "It'll help, I promise you." She leaned forward with a small smile, trying to catch his eyes.

He looked up, eyes distant, and flinched slightly but seemed to come out of his daze again. Grabbing his mug and lifting it hesitantly to his lips to sip from it, he suddenly seemed to change his mind and chose to chunk down the hot liquid in great, big gulps, making Ginny squeak in horrified surprise as she instinctively reached out to pull at his arm and stop him from his apparent suicide mission.

"Are you mental?! Blaise, that's dangerous!" she all but exclaimed in the quiet pub, pulling the mug away from him in time as he stared back at her with wide, stunned eyes, gulping and wincing from the obvious internal burn but still said nothing.

"I should take you to Madam Pomfrey's, you oaf! What were you thinking?!" she berated him, worried sick that he had hurt himself seriously and tried to do so intentionally. Only Merlin knew _why_?!

"I –" he croaked then stilled and looked away in shame, his tall, otherwise so poised, collected body squirming in the worn, burgundy-colored leather seat.

She blinked at him in utter confusion, trying to get her head around his strange behavior.

It couldn't only be because of what had just happened in the Shrieking Shack … could it? He _must_ have had worse experiences during the rise of Voldemort than encountering Dementors! Things he was forced to witness – or – or _do_ …

Ginny gulped and roamed her eyes over the dark wizard in front her who, at the moment, looked more like a small, shaken boy than a powerful, elegant young aristocrat. Despite his always polished countenance, she realized that he, too, had been visibly marked by the entire ordeal; dust covering his black sleeves and sitting in the crevices of his suit, smudges of dirt on his hands and face, the latter having taken on a grayish complexion with darker circles under his eyes as if he was ill. His Italian genes clearly didn't take well to the cold, Scottish weather either.

"Are you alright?" she pressed in concern.

"I'm – fine," he hissed with forced control, still hoarse from the burning cocoa, and cleared his tender throat, his eyes averting her inquisitive gaze. He was obviously _not_ fine.

Ginny huffed. "Owlshit! You're _not_ fine! You just downed a cup of burning hot cocoa, you dimwit! I'm getting you to Madam Pomfrey's right now!"

She started to get up, but a strong hand clamped down on her forearm, halting her.

"No, you don't!" he rasped angrily, looking properly and clearly up at her for the first time. "I'm _fine_, Weasley! Stop your incessant fussing and sit back down!"

He tucked at her arm, making her tip back into her seat, then quickly withdrew his hand as if he had been burned.

She leaned back and crossed her arms across her chest, shooting him a dubious look. "Right. Well, sorry for the concern. Just thought you might wanna be able to use those 'charmer pipes' again one day."

He lifted one neat eyebrow in arrogantly amused disbelief.

"_Really_, Weasley? 'Cuppa', 'jiffy', '_charmer_ pipes'?! Since when have you turned into my grandmother who thinks she can make up 'cool, hip' words?"

"Oh shut it, Zabini," she huffed but failed to bring any significant malice into the words. She was too relieved to see him back to his old self – even if said _self_ was a pain in the arse. And she didn't even know he had a grandmother – one whom he evidently was in contact with. For as long as she had known him (albeit not _that_ long), he held everything personal closely guarded.

Unaware of his slip, Blaise shrugged as if indifferent to her bite, though clearly amused, and placed his elbows and long arms on the table in a more relaxing pose, his broad, lean shoulders still slightly rigid. A smirk slowly formed on his lips and she couldn't help smirking back.

They _were_ rather silly, weren't they?

Rolling the hot mug in the palms of her hands, she stared down into its content, contemplating on her earlier musings about his memory. She couldn't quench her curiosity and feeling that they had come to some sort of tranquil understanding, would it be that bad to ask him now?

She glanced up at him, seeing he had his eyes fixed upon his clasped hands on the table in a different sort of pensiveness.

"Was it – was it a very good memory?"

His dark eyes shot to hers, first in question then a whirlpool of indefinable emotions swamped them though his face remained carefully blank. Quickly looking away, he wrung his sinewy hands.

"Um, it just – happened, okay? I hardly know _how_ it happened myself," he mumbled in a strained voice.

Ginny frowned in disbelief. "But you must have thought of _something_ significant for it to be such a powerful spell?" she pressed.

His fist slammed onto the table, making her jump in surprise. "Dammit, Weasley! Can't you just let it be?! Forget about it, alright! I don't want to talk about what happened!" he growled, still shifty but no less vehement.

"Okay. Alright," she muttered, stunned at his outburst. The more she saw the side of 'angry Blaise', the more confused she became.

She sighed inwardly as silenced tension once again suffused the air between them.

_Back to square one_.

"_Blaise_?! Merlin's beard, what are _you_ doing here?" A rather shrill female voice cut through the air like a knife, making both of them flinch and look up to see a Seventh Year girl coming towards them, drawing several curious looks from the occupants of the inn.

She reached them and instantly put a hand on Blaise's shoulder. Ginny couldn't help but frown at the overly familiar way in which she was touching him, barely acknowledging Ginny with more than a quick, snooty once-over.

Blaise shot the tall, pretty girl a slightly stunned look. "Oh, um, hi Paloma."

"Why, 'hi yourself'!" Paloma scoffed and rolled her eyes dramatically. "You haven't contacted me in ages, you oaf! What have you been up to? And don't you give me one of those pathetic Quidditch excuses!"

The way she caressed his arm clearly spoke differently than her put-on tone of voice and made Ginny want to gag.

"Um, out and about. You know," Blaise gave an indifferent shrug, averting his gaze from both of the staring girls, clearly not thrilled about having run into her. Ginny pursed her lips at his feeble attempt of a brush-off.

"_Clearly_." Paloma shot an icy look at her, making Ginny arch a questioning eyebrow.

_What the heck was _her_ problem?!_

"Well, yes, I've just been busy with lots of things this term, okay?" Blaise quickly interjected, feeling the bad air in the room and really not having the energy for one of Paloma's tantrums at the moment. _Why had he _ever_ hooked up with that girl?!_

"I see that," Paloma spoke with venom in her voice, still not taking her eyes from the astonished red-head sitting in front of him.

A strong, dark hand shot out and gripped the wrist of the hand on his shoulder.

"Quit it, will you! I don't have the time or the energy for one of your scenes right now, Paloma!" Blaise hissed under his breath.

"_Well_!" she flared, clearly affronted as her voice rose, "I guess you are over and done with _me_ then!? Taking up new, young and fresh meat, are we?" Her non-too-subtle gesture towards Ginny made him want to throttle the obnoxious former Hufflepuff.

"Sod off, Podsworth!" he growled tightly, releasing her arm with enough force and show of disgust to make her wobble slightly and her mouth open in sheer, outraged surprise. Her gaze hardened as she looked between him and Ginny, before she snapped her mouth shut into an angry, tight line and pointed an accusing finger at Blaise, though he refused to deign her a look.

"You go right ahead and fuck all the Weasleys you like, Zabini! I don't give a damn! You miserable, lowlife, _man-whoring_ _sod_!" she snarled furiously, making Ginny flinch at that last, all too familiar description as she watched Paloma's otherwise pretty face turned into an ugly, twisted mask of hurt and anger.

And with that, the older girl whipped around and staunchly made her way through and out of the inn, drawing a bunch of looks and whispers behind her.

Blaise's hand tightened around his empty mug, cursing the girl for making a scene and putting him on the spot in front of not only Weasley but the entire inn – and cursing himself for being so stupid not to break it off with the former Hufflepuff earlier when he had known something like this would eventually happen. He couldn't quite look at Ginny, almost fearing her response; the silent tension wavered thicker in the air than before, but luckily she said nothing, simply scooted the mug in front of her awkwardly between her hands.

"Well then," she eventually sighed with as much dispassionate flippancy as she could muster, looking at her watch. "There's about twenty minutes till class. Maybe we should be getting back?"

Blaise still hadn't looked up but simply nodded solemnly and quickly rose from his seat.

They made their way out of the pub, trying their best to ignore the continued stares and whispers of its nosy inhabitants. Both felt too physically and emotionally exhausted to deal with anything at the moment.

Reaching the castle felt much quicker than the road to the Shrieking Shack, despite it was actually a longer way. They said nothing to each other the entire time, lost in their respective thoughts, and when they got inside the Hogwarts walls, Blaise quickly made his excuses and shuffled off before she had a chance to say – well, to say what exactly? That it had been a _great_ day?! That they should do it sometime again soon? Well, they _would_ _have to_, but she couldn't imagine either of them looking much forward to it.

She sighed, staring off towards the direction he had disappeared; desperately wishing the day of their dreaded, planned trip would arrive sooner than later so they could get it over and done with.

That was the only reason she wished for it to happen soon …

Wasn't it?


	13. Aftershock

During and after class that very same day of the incident, Ginny had found herself contemplating whether or not to report the Dementor encounter to McGonagall.

Initially, it should be a no-brainer but she found her thoughts circling back to Blaise and how he would feel having the centre of attention – good or bad – once again thrust upon him. She knew McGonagall wasn't prejudiced against former Slytherins and that she would listen to their side of the story, but she still feared that the Headmistress would have to report it to the Auror office as well as the Hogwarts Board of Governors. They would probably not look as level-headed on the fact that a _Zabini_ had been present when the Dementor emerged and that he had been the one to lead them to the Shrieking Shack in the first place. Whether or not Blaise in fact was innocent and had been the one to chase it away, he would probably still remain a suspect, be unnecessarily questioned, appear in the newspapers and get another black mark on his reputation despite everything he had done this semester to try and rectify it. Ginny simply couldn't bear the thought of him being dragged through the mud again, while she would most likely remain the innocent victim and war heroine who could do nothing wrong in the public's eye.

Not after … _everything_.

Eventually, she decided that she would have to report it some time or another anyway and went straight to the Headmistress's office, hoping she could somehow persuade McGonagall to put a good word in for Blaise.

McGonagall looked alarmed when she was relayed this new information and told Ginny she would do her best to protect her students but she couldn't promise anything considering the danger of the situation. She would report it immediately to the Auror office and suspend any further trips to the Hogsmeade area until the creature was caught and any potential danger was intercepted.

_The danger of the situation …_

Ginny had wanted to laugh. How come she and Blaise did not see it coming?! Had it been the shock blinding them? They had literally just gone for a trip to Hogsmeade afterwards to get hot cocoa instead of rushing back to the school to report that a friggin', rogue Dementor was roaming the grounds near Hogwarts, putting students – _everyone_ at risk…! She had seriously considered that they would still have to go back before Christmas to guide the First Years through a merry old time in the Shrieking Shack..! Apparently, the shock of the incident had hit her much harder than she had been aware, yet she wanted to slap herself for her own stupidity!

McGonagall had seemingly sensed Ginny's stunned demeanor and had reassured her once again that she would do everything she could to dissuade any possible suspicions surrounding Ginny and especially Blaise's presence there. Of course, the trip was cancelled – or at least postponed indefinitely; their guidance no longer required considering what they had been through. The Headmistress had then asked the somewhat pale, stupefied girl whether she should be taken to Madam Pomfrey's but Ginny had mechanically dismissed the concern, saying she was fine; she just needed some sleep. It had been a _long_ day, after all.

Stepping out of the Headmistress's office was like stepping out of a fog and she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Instead she made a choked sob and clasped her mouth, leaning back against the stonewall beside the entrance as she felt her suddenly all too tired legs shaking beneath her. Why had she even bothered coming back to the school this year?! Everything just seemed to go wrong and the bleakness still hadn't lifted its shadow over her mind. It was just – _too much_! Keeping up with classes, taking her final NEWTs, Head Girl duties, _Blaise_, Dementors, yes, even Quidditch responsibilities seemed wearing on her shoulders on top of everything else. _And she didn't want that!_ She missed the way Quidditch was a let-out for all the chaos inside her, all the shit that had gone down in the war and all the nasty things people said and did in its aftermath.

She felt everything and nothing in a hazy swirl and she didn't _want_ to feel everything and nothing! For once she wanted peace and balance in her life, not confusion and awkward missteps and misunderstandings and the people in her life dismantling and only keeping in touch once in a while via owl! She missed Luna and Neville – whom she'd thought would have started school with her this year, but they had both sent her letters just before the start of term, telling they had chosen to take a year off; Luna had gone travelling in search of new Magical Creatures, whereas Neville had announced - in surprise - that he had been offered and taken up a position alongside Harry and Ron at the Auror office (though he hoped to be back studying soon again). Hermione was here, of course, (however distracted she was), along with the Patil twins and Cho Chang, but Ginny still missed the boys and especially Luna who had been one of her very best friends, after all. Even Dean and Seamus were gone, having settled in Ireland.

Her stomach ached. She missed her old friends so terribly, feeling more alone and destitute than ever before, and at the moment felt so knackered it was a miracle she even managed to push herself off the wall and drag her sorry ass and shaky legs off to bed, while trying not to think of the pressing schedule and duties of the next day. Sighing heavily as she reached her bed and collapsed in it, clothes and all, she suddenly felt much older than her mere seventeen years.

**X**

Blaise scowled into his Potions book, reading the same three lines for the seventh time before giving up with a heavy sigh, making Theo shoot him a curious look beside him. His mind certainly wasn't where it should be today. And wonder why?

He dared a glance at the red-head occupying his thoughts a couple of rows across from him who was listening with as much attentiveness as one _could_ to Slughorn's current tirade about – well, something about toxins and their antidotes. Blaise couldn't help smirking at the thought but sobered as he continued to stare at her, remembering last week's incident and what she had asked him.

How _had_ he been able to conjure that Patronus?

He had shut her off at The Three Broomsticks and their way home to the castle that afternoon, just like he had shut himself off momentarily, because he didn't want to think of the reason _why _himself. But now he unwillingly felt the nagging questions of the entire ordeal sneaking their way into the crevices of his daily thoughts and doings.

When he finally chose to open the can of worms and look closer in detail into the memory, he remembered something had been off when they had been struggling the Dementor. Something off with _her_. For all her skills in D.A.D.A. and encounters with Dark wizards and likewise creatures, _she_ should have been the one to conjure the Patronus. Not _him_. Not an untrained, unlikely qualified contender who had dabbled with the Dark Arts once. Then why hadn't _she_ been the one to chase it away? Why hadn't she been much faster?

Then it suddenly dawned on him: He hadn't actually _seen_ her conjure a Patronus yet!

In all the - albeit short - time they had trained she had only _told_ him how to conjure one and since she had focused all her attention on _him _from the beginning, he had taken it as a natural that seeing _her_ perform it wouldn't help him anymore than it already did. He hadn't even bothered to ask, so wrapped up in his own pity party he had been..! How stupid could he be?! Why hadn't she _shown_ him her Patronus? Either she just didn't see it necessary (_which was bull!_) or she hadn't done it for a reason. Or maybe she just _couldn't_. No, wait. That couldn't be right..? She was one of the youngest and strongest witches to join Dumbledore's Army back then, during the war. If anyone could show you how to impress in D.A.D.A.-classes it was_ her_! Even the famous Saint-bloody-Potter had been impressed by her skills, he'd heard. Besides, Blaise knew _first-hand_ how quick and almost cunningly subtle she could retaliate if someone threw some particularly nasty slurs in her or her friends' general direction. He hadn't been spared for the tales about how amazing she had been battling Voldemort's followers in the Last Battle either. Of course, he hadn't. It had been all over the news afterwards, during the summer holidays, and still permeated many of the headlines on all available newspapers. Safe to say, appealing reading material had been scarce since then. He couldn't avoid those heroic dunderheads! Nor all the personal, continuously suspicious slur against him, his friends and anything former Slytherin.

But … then again, the war had taken its toll on _everyone_. She had lost friends and family … A brother. Fred Weasley's death might very well have triggered something, forming a crack in that 'perfect, innocent goodness of hers', making her somehow incapable of conjuring a Patronus, even though he had trouble even entertaining that thought. She seemed so strong – _head_-strong, for sure. She had so much … so _many_ who clearly loved and cared about her; she must be loaded with happy memories despite everything that had happened. At least a lifetime of something he had never had. Not really. He had never known his father and his mother had never really been there for him; always carousing somewhere with some new beau-slash-potential husband of hers.

He suddenly received a sharp elbow to his side, ripping him from his musings, and he glared to his side to see Theo looking at him with eyebrows raised in question. Blaise scoffed and dismissed his friend's nosy attitude in usual fashion, his gaze automatically seeking back to the redhead in front of him. Something was off with her _right now_. She seemed lost in thought. Ever since the incident, actually. They hadn't spoken since it happened and – by chance – had had no coinciding duties together, but he hadn't exactly tried to seek her out either. He wasn't big on talking and all that sentimental shit. He had, however, subtly watched her from a distance throughout their shared classes and in the Great Hall, sensing she had acted more withdrawn and pensive than usual (well, as usual as one would expect anyone to be in the aftermath of war); her freckled, alabaster brow often folded in a permanent frown, dark circles under her eyes relaying a general lack of sleep, not unlike himself.

He wondered what she had told McGonagall about the incident in the Shrieking Shack, since he had said nothing himself. But his thoughts was interrupted by the class being dismissed, Theo's irritated voice saying something indistinct on his left and a flash of red hair going past him on his right, setting him into motion.

"Oi! Weasley! Wait up!" he called out, collecting his things and bailing on his baffled friend before he had anything else to say.

She didn't stop however but disappeared quickly out of the door and he had push himself through the crowd of exiting students in order to keep up with her, barely managing to spot her hunched, slim form scurrying down the hallway and around the corner.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Though the girl was quick, he managed to catch up with her thanks to his long legs.

"Would you slow down for a second and listen to me?!" he spoke to her back, exasperated. When she continued to walk on and ignore him, he grabbed her arm and swung her tense body around to him. "_Hey_!"

He was met by two blazing, light-brown eyes that seemed close to tears. "_What_, Blaise?! What do you want?" she spat.

"Would you just –," he paused and sighed, "_stop_ ignoring me and running away and tell me what's wrong? Is it McGonagall? Has she blamed you for what happened or something?"

She stared at him in surprise. "_What_? No! Nothing like that!" she spoke defensively and shrugged out his grip, crossing her arms across her chest. He gave her a disbelieving look. Clearly she was not speaking the entire truth. _Covering up for something?_

"Wait –" it dawned on him and he pointed angrily at her, "If you are trying to take the blame or something pathetic, heroic shit like that– I never asked you to cover for me! I'm no coward hiding behind a woman's skirts – I can speak for myself, you know! And I certainly don't need _you_ licking the boots of McGonagall like a good, little Gryffindor! I swear to you Weasley, I'll–"

She blistered at his sudden accusations. "What, Blaise? What will you do?! Manhandle me like you always do if something doesn't please the almighty prince of Slytherin!?"

"I just might," he growled threateningly, looking around in irritation for having made a public scene even though they were alone in the hallway at the moment. Luckily, but for how long? He then realized that they were just outside the Prefects' Bathroom. _Hm, what are the odds_, he thought wryly, but, at least, in there they could hope for some privacy. He had no desire to spread unnecessary gossip if someone spotted them arguing or – Merlin help him – overheard what they argued about.

Grabbing her arm once again, he led her determinedly towards the door.

"Hey, what are you doing?! Let go of me, you oaf!" she protested and struggled in his grip, but he held on and said the password to the door which instantly opened at his touch.

"Giving us some privacy," he hissed, giving the place a quick once-over to make sure they would be alone and then shoved her inside in front of him, looking back to check no one had seen them. He closed and locked the door behind him and was instantly met by the angry, flustered face of the Weasley girl.

"What the hell, Zabini?!"

Rolling his eyes, he stepped away from her close proximity. "Calm down, you crazy bint. I just saved us from being the center of the gossip the next couple of months." Ignoring her piercing glare, he took a couple of steps into the bathroom in his usual, supercilious manner and turned towards her again, arms crossed. "Now, what have you been telling McGonagall?"

"I–" she opened her mouth in protest (_who did he think he was? Her _father_?_), but realized he could see right through whatever she came up with and honestly, she had no good cover-up story. What was she supposed to tell him? When first the Aurors began arriving and Hogsmeade was closed off, he would find out anyway. He was about as persistent and stubborn as an army of hippogriffs. _She_ would be one to know since she was exactly the same. That realization hit her out of nowhere and she blinked owlishly up at him.

He raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow at her lack of response. "Well?"

"I–" she stammered again and gulped, lost for words and ideas and fearing his reaction to the truth.

Blaise rolled back his neck with a heavy sigh and threw up his hands in an uncharacteristically impatient manner. "Oh, come on, Weasley! Just spit it out! It cannot be that bad!? What could possibly be worse than having faced a Dementor, huh?"

She winced and said reluctantly, "Try facing Aurors."

Blaise's dark eyes widened in surprise. "_WHAT?!_" he exclaimed and stepped closer to her, making her flinch.

"Um, yeah, I kinda told McGonagall the truth right after class that day, completely blinded by the shock, I think, to realize just how much danger a rogue Dementor near the Hogwarts grounds and the students is," she apologized quickly. "I didn't even think of the danger we were putting everyone in when we left the Shrieking Shack to go to Hogsmeade instead of going straight back to school and reporting it. McGonagall didn't berate or blame us but she was alarmed by the news of the Dementor and said she would have to report it to the Auror office." Hurriedly she added: "But she also told me she would do her best to divert _any_ possible outside blame directed towards us."

She glanced hesitantly up, expecting to be met by his fierce eyes and anger, only to see the reality of the situation dawning on him as well. He looked stunned, almost as if he was going to be sick and backed away from her.

"Merlin! I haven't even thought of that!" he spoke hoarsely, more to himself than to her, and looked back at her in slight panic, mirroring her own fears.

Ginny nodded, hugging herself. "I felt the same way when I saw McGonagall's reaction. I didn't realize just how much danger we were in … and continue to be so," she replied glumly, her worried glance drawn out through the rain-drenched windows towards the dark, Scottish landscape surrounding them. Blaise followed her gesture and gulped.

"So, the Aurors will come?" he asked with strained trepidation etched into his voice after a moment of listening to the rain hitting the glass and the trickle of running water from the bath behind them. She looked back at him and met his worried and all too exposed gaze for a guy who usually held on to a stoic mask of cold indifference.

"Yes, I think they will arrive next weekend when we all go home for the holidays and they'll probably stay here after New Year until the matters are sorted," she gave a tentative guess and hugged herself tighter, her eyes flickering towards his direction.

He gave a solemn nod and his smooth, broad forehead turned into a deep, thoughtful frown.

Unable to help herself, she stepped forward. "Blaise, I– I'm sorry. I wanted to spare you the questioning and the suspicion and the press and– and I hope it will not come to that, because I will do anything in my power to make them understand that it was all just a coincidence – an accident; that not you nor I was at fault. That there wasn't anything else we could do. That we were in shock." She was rambling but his torn expression and haggard face made her instinctively want to reassure and comfort him in any way possible, all her current displeasure and past reservations with the boy momentarily forgotten.

His black gaze shifted to stare at her in an eerily bleak fashion as if he had already given up hope of being spared the unfair attention and humiliation and accepted it.

"_Please_." She grabbed his arm in desperation, wanting to shake some sense and hope into him, to make him understand that she wouldn't abandon him just like that, but stand by him. He didn't have to be strong alone anymore.

Blaise gazed down to her hand on his arm then back up to her syrupy-brown, imploring eyes, feeling everything come crashing down upon him and seeing her slim shoulders bravely taking on some of the weight, despite everything she carried herself; all the horrors she had seen, all the losses she had suffered. Someone so different from him and yet so … alike. Someone who genuinely _cared _for once. Who stayed around. _It was too fucking cliché!_ He couldn't think straight or remember the last time he had been able to concentrate on school work or eat or sleep properly; the dark memories and nightmares filling his every thought, his every move. He hadn't seen his mother for weeks now (she had retreated to the family estate in Italy some time during the end of the war) or any of his old, scattered friends besides Theo and occasionally Draco. And for some reason _her face_ – _this girl_ whom he once rejoiced in despising with all his might – had been a constant in his life since he dug himself up from the grave of war and decided to somehow begin again; a constant reminder of everything that was wrong with his past and his life, of what he could have been had he only –

_I can't take this anymore._

Grabbing her astonished face, he did the only thing his mind and body could agree upon while pushing everything else away and crashed his mouth down to hers, met with a surprised gasp. Hungrily, desperately he molded his lips to her unmoving ones until she started responding with equal fervour, whimpering as he pushed her back against the bathroom wall and continued attacking her mouth in seconds that were rendered timeless.

"Hmph!" Ginny muffled against him as her lower back accidentally and painfully hit a water tap in the brickwork and just like that the spell was broken. She pushed him away at the same time as he reared back and they stared dazedly and open-mouthed at each other.

_What was that?!_

"I– " Blaise croaked, his gaze darting across her ruffled, bewildered appearance; their intimate position dawning on him and he instantly let go of her and backed away. "I shouldn't – we shouldn't have done that," he said dumbfounded, mouth opening to say more but nothing but silence came out. "I'm– I need to go," he mumbled quickly in lack of better words and practically catapulted towards the door, unlocking and opening it and gone he was.

Seconds ticked by. Only the occasional, echoing drip-drop quietness of the spacious bathroom and subsiding rain outside were heard.

Ginny finally exhaled, the fluttering of her heart and roaring of the blood behind her ears still going strong as she slid down the wall, past the water tap, down to the floor and stared blankly into the space in front of her. The imprint of his warm, firm lips buzzing on her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut and banged her head against the wall._ Stupid, STUPID Ginny!_

_Here we go again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, the mention of Luna and Neville happened a little randomly, considering Ginny 'misses them so much' as I wrote, but this story is written rather fragmentary, mainly structured around the encounters between Blaise and Ginny and their respective POVs, thus not including many supporting characters (so far). Furthermore, I'm hinting to Ginny possibly having a depression after the war and Fred's death. Nothing overt is expressed about it, but I thought it would be a realistic scenario (though, in reality, wouldn't everyone basically have PTSD after what they've been through?!) if Ginny has it shadowing her moods, thoughts and relationships and simmering underneath everything in her daily life, yet she isn't aware of it or at least subconsciously pushes it away. I've tried to illustrate this through the way she dives into matters of the school rather ambivalently, and, given the level of responsibility she has, is more or less left to her own devices, ostracizing herself from her friends despite secretly blaming them for abandoning her. One could argue that some of them have, but I would think people cope with the effects of war in very different and private ways. Though, of course, it would be amazing if everyone stuck together and pulled through right after the war, yet I think reality would look slightly different.
> 
> Sorry, didn't mean to analyze my own story for you. Perhaps it speaks for itself. I just think it's an interesting aspect worth exploring in the HP universe.


	14. Christmas at the Burrow

Christmas was held at the Burrow as usual. It was probably the first time since Fred's funeral (Ginny swallowed a lump in her throat at the thought) where the whole family would be gathered once again. It wouldn't be the same, of course, not without Fred, and Ginny doubted it ever would, but she hoped the gloomy atmosphere she had left her home in at the end of the summer had evaporated – or _would_ as soon as her parents got their children together again. She was determined not to let her own mood surface too much, at least. No need for them to worry any further.

Hermione had warned her: Harry would be there as well, of course. She had looked at her with such pitiful eyes and Ginny was in absolutely no mood to go into Hermione's rationalizations about their relationship, so she'd simply retorted that 'So would Ron'. That had shut her up, although Ginny felt slightly guilty about it, afterwards. She just didn't have the energy to ponder about boys at the moment. She had hoped for a quiet school year, but apparently hadn't gotten her wish, so instead she wished for a quiet Christmas holiday. That wasn't too much to ask, was it?

Of course, it was never quiet at the Burrow once the family was gathered (she suspected her mother would still clash with Fleur over the food and table settings and all that stuff), but as long as it took her mind off whatever else was happening – or _had happened_ – she would be more than happy. She didn't need anyone's pity, least of all Hermione's. She just wanted to have a good time and forget. Sure, the presence of Harry wouldn't exactly clear the air of tension, but she _had_ missed him, most of all as a friend and felt that they would be able to overcome the initial awkwardness as long as he didn't suddenly try to pick up from where they left off. _That_ would be awkward!

She hated to admit to herself how little thought she had given to him since the beginning of the school year, but _so much_ had happened since their break-up that she'd hardly had time to ponder upon him. It wasn't like she didn't _want_ something to happen between them again. It was just … such bad timing, it seemed. The way they had left things ... it seemed so final and yet wrong at the same time. Like, it shouldn't have ended but it just wasn't working either - at the time. And she'd somehow sensed Harry had felt the same in the few, friendly letters they had shared since.

And then there was the issue of Blaise.

It wasn't like her dealings with him could be compared to Harry and her past relationship with him, but it was still somehow awkward to try and pick up things with one boy while keeping up a very confusing, complex relationship with another. _Especially _a former Slytherin. No, it wasn't like_ that_ kind of relationship - not even close! But after what had happened between them during the last few months, the latest event the strongest and most upsetting, she couldn't get him out of her head. Everything collided with Blaise for some reason. She was so frustrated and confused about him all the time and trying to deny how unraveled he made her feel took up even more headspace..! She felt so silly and not herself about it all, and it didn't help to be reminded of 'her old self' with the reappearance of Harry in her life. Still, it might do her good; perhaps getting back on track; remind her of the life she set out to live with him and her family and friends and Quidditch ...

Yes, perhaps it would do her good. She just had to relax and be mature about it, just as she expected everyone else to be this Christmas.

**X**

The gathering went more or less as expected: The air was a mix of both familiar comfort of their reunion and forced cheerfulness, trying to chase most of the gloomy absence of Fred away while still mourning him.

Dad was as close to his jovial, distracted self as he could manage, but clearly pleased to have his children in one room again, and Mum fussed more than usual and clashed with Fleur over the table settings and other petty things which made everyone roll their eyes and laugh. It was a nice and familiar, albeit rather shrill, distraction. George had gotten some of his teasing spark back, but was still somewhat a shadow of his former self, probably still too guiltily caught up with what a reminder his presence was of his twin. Bill had thrived under Fleur's love and care; he didn't seem very self-conscious about his scar any longer. Besides, he was entirely preoccupied talking to Dad about the new extensions for children's rooms he had planned for the Shell Cottage. Charlie was his usual, reliable, laconic self but would always light up when one prodded about his dragons and brought many adventurous stories home from Romania. Percy had, of course, changed radically since his betrayal; the former air of self-importance and snobbishness gone entirely, though he still hadn't let go of some of his know-it-all, big brother-attitude. Ginny wouldn't have it any differently. Initially, he kept a bit back from joining the more humorous festivities, but Bill, George and Charlie would have none of it and bodily hauled him into the circle. He would give a small smile, slightly flustered at the warm, forgiving reception he hadn't received in a long time.

The long-awaited arrival of Harry and Ron made both Ginny and Hermione – who had arrived to the Burrow together – slightly anxious, but also pleased. Ginny gave her brother a tight hug, while Harry received an equally tight hug from Hermione, but when the girls changed places, their respective greetings of the boys were slightly stilted for very different reasons. Hermione immediately pulled Ron away to the first floor before he had the chance to greet everyone else, but they soon came back down, a bit ruffled and Ron with a goofy smile plastered on his freckly face. Harry threw Ginny a knowing glance and a disarming smile – one that made her heart pinch bitter-sweetly – and she smiled tentatively back, feeling the air between them relaxing. How she had missed him!

But, for some reason, looking at Harry, his image was all too sudden replaced by a taller, dark-skinned and brooding wizard whom had occupied her daily life for half a year now. She blinked and shook her head, unsettled by how traitorous her mind was. How could she be thinking about Blaise when she was looking straight at Harry who was giving her his warm, familiar smile; no sneering, arrogantly formed lips, subtly taunting and mocking her and giving her hell!? Here was the boy she loved and longed for; the boy she had had a crush on since before she could remember and for the last couple of years thought was the one and only person she would end up with for the rest of her life! Even if they were not together _now_, they might be again, some day, at the right time.

Why couldn't she be happy about that notion? Why did she feel so torn all of sudden?

Harry seemed to notice the shifting emotions crossing her features and gave her a questioning look, which she quickly dismissed with a reassuring smile, before the welcomed distraction of the rest of family coming to greet him broke their eye contact.

She continued to keep the smile plastered on her face as she stepped back and observed Harry laughing in surprise as he was buried in freckly arms and red heads, but on the inside her emotions were in a turmoil.

_What was this? _Why did this feel so rattling to her very core? Why couldn't she dismiss it as being mere hormones or silly thoughts? She simply _pitied_ Blaise. That was _it_. ..Wasn't it? Sure, they had become closer, but anything could be considered 'closer' compared to their icy, hostile non-acknowledgement of each other before the war. And yes, she couldn't deny he was handsome, but in an arrogant, superior, cold sort of way. She didn't go for that. She didn't have any other feelings than pity – verging on basic human compassion – for the guy.

"You alright there, luv?" George sidled up to her, away from the boisterous family greetings, hugging her slim shoulders with his long arm.

She looked up at him as he gave her a sidelong look that spoke brotherly affection and sympathy; a more serious, matured version of the George she once knew. She could still spot the bleak traces of their mutual loss around his eyes, yet, somehow, he managed to put up a brave front of teasing, carefree joviality. She loved him all the more for it and hugged him back in return. His mouth quirked up in a sad smile, eyes momentarily glazing over in the all too familiar way they had done after Fred's death, and she quickly tightened her hold, giving him an empathetic look. They would always have each other, she hoped her eyes silently told him, and George, always the quick-witted one, seemed to catch her message as he gave a reassuring squeeze in response. They stood there for a while, consoling each other in quiet contemplation, looking at the others disentangling themselves from each other, still smiling and laughing.

Fleur came from the kitchen to greet the boys and kissed Harry and Ron's cheeks until they were both entirely flushed and Bill guffawed at the show as Fleur drew back into his arms, flaunting her French and slightly overdoing her praises about the boys having grown taller and handsomer since she last saw them. They were practically beet-red in their faces now.

As if only naturally, the gang soon spread out or intermingled in the lively house. Mum and Fleur returned to the kitchen and the preparation of the food with Hermione helping out and acting as a mediator when things got heated between them. Bill, Percy and Dad were talking to Harry about some Ministry dealings, and Ron wrestled good-humoredly with Charlie but quickly went on to gush over the latest International Quidditch scores and Charlie's news of Romania. George gave Ginny one last squeeze before he trotted towards and in-between the various groups, saying little, all the while snatching up food when Mum wasn't looking.

Ginny stood silently by for a moment, watching everyone dive into their animated or subdued chatter. Not exactly feeling left outside; she was just happy to see everyone else feeling relatively happy again and right now she didn't mind being left to her own devices.

Placing herself in her favorite comfy chair by the fireplace, she picked up one of the books she had been reading about Patronus spells since the beginning of the Holidays and soon lost track of time.

Of course, George, Ron and Charlie interrupted her quiet reading after an hour or so; with Ron hauling her out of the chair, shouting to George about finding their old Quidditch gear which George responded with loud footsteps up the stairs and more shouting, making her ears ring. Charlie shuffled behind her and gave her a lopsided smile, followed by a resigned shrug at their brothers' typically boisterous behavior.

After much searching and cursing, George finally dug up their old gear and flung them lazily down the stairs where Ron tried to catch it all but getting most of it in his face instead and making Mum scold the boys for the unnecessary racket.

Harry had joined them outside and soon he and all the Weasley children were off to the small family Quidditch field they had set up years ago a couple of yards from the Burrow.

It was dusk and chill, filling Ginny's lungs with icy spikes and clearing her head as she took in the sight of the snow-covered scenery and the first stars glinting in the wide darkness above her.

Her brothers seemed as excited as small children; mounting their brooms and shooting into the crispy winter air, cheering, with her and Harry close behind. A welcome rush and sense of freedom flew through her as she rose into the sky. Quidditch and flying had become like an extension of herself and she always felt amiss when she hadn't had the chance to exercise her body and mind through the sport for a while. And it was fun to play with her brothers once again; her vocal chords soon cracking anew with laughter and shouts at her their various antics and – as always – slightly unfair play as only older brothers do.

They returned to the Burrow after two hours or so, cheeks flushed and faces playful, and were delightfully greeted by the warmth of the fireplace and smell of roasted turkey, homemade bread and mince pies. Hermione handed her a tray filled with cookies first (probably a strategic move since she knew of her brothers' infamous gluttony) and Fleur came next with several mugs of burning hot, spicy chocolate to get them warm.

A sated atmosphere and calm chatter filled the living room and kitchen. Ginny slowly sipped her chocolate by the fire, staring into the flames, while some of the others started to get up and shuffle around with their various doings and the rest soon spread out throughout the house, leaving her once again to herself as she listened to the satisfying, crackling sound of the fire. It was good to be back home again, after all, she mused, draining her mug and yawned.

Slowly she drifted off, the empty mug resting in her lap.

The warmth licking up her sore legs.

The crackling of fire.

_Something burned._

_An awful smell she couldn't place hit her senses, smoke watered her eyes and her ankle hurt. Bricks splintered and fell left and right as spells ricocheted off walls and students ran and fell in painful or dead screams around her._

_Crumbled bodies on the ground. Eyes wide and lifeless, staring up at her. Through her._

_Gone._

_FRED!_

… _No! Nononono - NOOO!_

She bolted upright. _A dream_, she breathed raggedly. _A nightmare_.

Looking quickly around the spacious living room she saw that, luckily, no had noticed her sudden reaction. Leaning back, she tried to calm her breathing, closing her eyes to make the vision disappear, but the burning, smoky presence of the fireplace only reminded her of those torn up walls of the school and the distorted bodies on the burning ground.

All that... _death_.

The, by now, all too familiar, unwelcome nausea clamped down on her throat. She rose, moving away from the fireplace and scurried upstairs to her room without drawing attention to herself. She quickly went inside and closed the door behind her, her breath leaving her body as if she had been punched in the stomach.

But crying wouldn't help, she told herself. It had not helped before, so why should it help now?

Still, the tears came and she barely stifled a gut-wrenching sob, as she slid down the door and sat on the floor. She cried in silence, alone in her old room, grateful of the lack of interruption as she gradually managed to collect herself, reigning in her outward sadness as best as she could and dried her eyes, using a charm to make the puffiness disappear.

Rising on numb legs – as if she had cried all energy out of her body – and dusting them off, she was instantly transported back to the confrontation she and Blaise had had with the Dementor in the Shrieking Shack. The only time she'd ever seen the stoic, elegant, nonchalant Blaise Zabini petrified with fear. How his muscles had strained and trembled under her hand, looking with astonishment at his Patronus and down at her; overwhelming her with eyes like dark pools of unchecked emotion and a million questions. His poised body slumped, his demeanor bleak and self-deprecating, yet saying nothing of it. Never telling her of his inner scars.

But was _she_ so different? And hadn't she – by helping him – inadvertently tried to help herself?

But why, oh why, didn't she feel this about Harry instead of _him_?! Why - when she now tried to think of or picture Harry in her mind - did she see the dark, pensive, perfectly sculpted face of Blaise looming above her, giving her the scathing smirk and perceptive look once in a while that she had found to belie a show of something close to fondness rather than the disdain he tried so hard to put upfront?

… The hard, burning imprint of his body and lips against her in the Prefects' Bathroom.

She looked in the mirror by the wall, touching her lips absentmindedly, observing the many questions still swirling in her wondrous gaze. It was like looking at a new self; a more mature, scarred Ginny.

Pulling out of her daze, she quickly made extra sure her appearance revealed nothing of her recent tears and decided to go back downstairs in case the others had begun to worry about her.

Still, as she went out of her room, she couldn't help wondering where Blaise was and what he was doing this evening; a concerned thought sneaking its way into her musings: 'How was he? Was he happy? Was he alone?'

She shook her head out of her somber thoughts when Harry suddenly cornered her on the first floor near the stairs.

"Harry!" she yelped in surprise.

"I didn't have a chance to ask you before, Ginny, but I just wanted to know how you've been?" he said sheepishly at her astonished look, his green eyes focusing keenly in on her, yet with a note of nervousness, his hands demonstratively stuck down his pockets.

Taken aback by his close proximity, she blinked at him and realized he too had tried his best to move on; to remain friends, yet not finding much ease in it.

She gulped. Could she even return the sentiment any longer? Yes, there was a past longing still lingering around Harry. Perhaps there always would be. Yet, she was now also acutely aware how her heart beat differently when she was near Harry than when she was with Blaise, and the knowledge rattled her.

Somewhere, deep inside her, she was unintentionally and irrevocably connected to Blaise. She couldn't deny it any longer, despite still feeling slightly confused and uncertain by it all.

Clearing her throat, feeling guilty realizing all this in front of Harry (of all people), she hoped he didn't notice anything. Still, his green, caring eyes were such a relief to behold once again and she suppressed a wobble in her smile, deciding to put up her best front.

"I've been well, Harry, thank you. Things are fine at school. I, um, still train the Quidditch team and am doing alright in class. Well, mostly. By the way, McGonagall has established new Houses and I've become Head Girl for mine. Have Hermione told you?"

Harry nodded absentmindedly and observed her silently, eyes scrutinizing.

She grumbled mentally._ Oh, bollocks! Why can't I lie more effectively!?_

"Ginny," he murmured pointedly, throwing a glance over his shoulder, before guiding her gently by the arm further away, out of earshot from the others downstairs. He gave her a concerned look and she dreaded what came next. "Ginny, please tell me what's going on? Are you alright? Truly?"

She righted herself, crossing her arms defensively. "Harry, I'm _fine_. I just told you. You don't have to go all 'concerned-ex-boyfriend' on me, you know. That part is over between you and I."

Taken aback by her sudden hostility, his brow furrowed. "I am not, Ginny. That's not the point – I-"

"Well, if this is some third-degree interrogation you've learned in the 'Auror school', don't be putting it on me, you hear!" she hissed defensively, surprising herself as she pointed a threatening finger at him.

Immediately, he grabbed her raised hand and drew her into one of the unoccupied rooms on the first floor.

"Merlin, I'd almost forgotten how your temper is like!" he breathed in mild exasperation but with a note of teasing affection, as he pulled her into his body, giving her a brief, calming hug.

_Damn him and how well he knows me!,_ she sighed internally and leaned into him, reveling in his familiar touch and smell.

"I know it has been hard. It has been on me as well," he mumbled into her hair, stroking her arm gently, and she wasn't quite sure if he meant postwar-life or their break-up or both, "But I'm not acting as a concerned ex-boyfriend –", at that she looked up and gave him a pointed look to which he sighed, "Alright, I _am_ _partly_ that, but first and foremost, I am acting as a concerned _friend_, because I still love you.. like a friend – well, like family, I guess," he halted, and she sensed it was because he was not the family he wanted to be to her and perhaps never would.

She lifted a hand to push some of his stroppy, black hair back from his down-turned eyes and smiled comfortingly up at him. "I know, Harry. I love you too. Like a friend, like family. I always will. But it is not as it once was between us." She looked away briefly. "I don't think we can go back. It hurts me too to think about it, but I'm also happy that I still get to have you in my life."

He looked down at her, his beautiful, green eyes filled with such unspoken emotion that it was her turn to look away and she slowly disentangled herself from his embrace, her heart feeling torn, as if she was betraying him by staying in his arms like this as well as leaving. But also because it didn't feel quite right. Like … she was betraying someone else.

They stood rather awkwardly beside each other, when they suddenly heard someone clearing their throat behind them and turned to find Hermione standing in the doorway.

"Sorry to interrupt, but the boys are lighting the tree decorations outside and Mrs. Weasley asked me to come and fetch you, Harry, to join them if you'd like," she announced, looking questioningly between Ginny and him, apparently having picked up the tension between them.

Ginny didn't know if she welcomed the distraction or if she wanted to finish this thing with Harry first, but Harry seemed to make the decision for her.

"Oh, alright. Thanks, Hermione, I think I will," he mumbled, shooting one last, apologizing look at Ginny and quickly shuffled out of the room and went downstairs.

Hermione, however, remained, her eyes observing Ginny who – as always – felt peeved by her friend's perusing gaze.

"What?"

Hermione shrugged but still didn't move her eyes from her. "I just wondered if there was anything you wanted to talk about … About Harry perhaps?"

Ginny crossed her arms. "No," she replied curtly.

"No?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, Hermione. _Thanks!_"

"Calm down, Ginny, no need to get defensive. I'm just –"

"Just what?" Ginny bit out.

Her brow furrowed, "Just – concerned for you. You've been acting a bit … _off_ ever since the school year started."

"Yeah, and I wonder why?!" she snorted sarcastically.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "I didn't –", she sighed heavily, "I didn't mean it like that. You know I didn't. It's just that – that you have been slightly distracted and, well, blue for a long time it seems. I couldn't help noticing."

"Hmph, didn't seem you noticed much to me," Ginny fired back.

"Don't be like that. You know I've had a lot on my plate this year, but that doesn't mean I do not notice what goes on with my friends, especially my best friends."

Ginny unfolded her arms, hands turned into fists at her side. "So what has been going on, huh, Hermione? What has been going on with your so-called best friend?"

Hermione took a step closer to her, pity and worry painting her face. "I know you have not been entirely happy, Ginny. And I've been, well, rather _worried_ about your dealings with Zabini as of late."

Ginny's eyes hardened. "What about it?"

She sighed heavily as if she was about to explain something to a small child and Ginny hated it. "Well, I don't like it. I'm not sure what he wants from you – "

"Why should he want something special from me, just because he spends time with me?" Ginny retorted indignantly.

"Please, Ginny," Hermione held up her hand in peace, "hear me out? I'm just concerned about your relationship with him, that's all."

"_That's all?_ It certainly doesn't sound like 'that's all'! Spit it out, Hermione! Say what you want to say!"

Hermione's worried gaze blazed momentarily, her jaw shooting out. "Alright. I don't think you should trust him," she said in a clipped tone.

Ginny lifted an eyebrow. "And why is that, may I ask?"

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh. "You _know_ why!"

"No, honestly, I don't."

"Stop that, Ginny!" she exclaimed, aggravated, "You know he is a cad and a womanizer! You know what he has done! Do not tell me you don't!"

Ginny hated the accusing stare she gave her, as if she had demoralized herself by being in his company, and as if Hermione also accused her for not confiding more in her. But Ginny _had_ tried! Well, not enough, perhaps, but Hermione hadn't exactly been forthcoming about the subject. Speaking of which:

"You do know he's not going to change all of a sudden, don't you?" Hermione said, now more subdued as if slightly ashamed of having been so riled up a moment ago and about the way she had spoken. Still, there was a disappointed edge to her voice.

Ginny sighed, swallowing her irritation, knowing this was Hermione when she cared but also thought her slightly judgmental. "You do not know him, Hermione."

"And you do?" she raised an eyebrow in reproach. "Remember how he was before the war. Do you really think all that is gone?"

Ginny looked down in admittance. "No, not all of it. Some of it is a part of who he is, I guess." Then she steeled her gaze. "But the rest – I know it has. I've seen it. And it was _the war_, Hermione. You know what that can do to you. No matter what 'side' you were on. We all got our scars." Ginny hadn't meant for it to come out that harsh, but she was not going to excuse her 'relationship' with Blaise to Hermione.

However, the minute she had spoken she regretted it. The flash of hurt and painful memories in her friend's chocolate-colored eyes was unmistakable and made Ginny's heart skip a panicky beat. Of all people, Hermione knew all too well what war could do to you. Why, she had it etched into her arm!

_Stupid Ginny!_

"No, Hermione, I didn't – you know I didn't mean it like that. I just –," she bit her lip, afraid of saying the wrong thing again and ruining the evening for them. "Can't we just forget about it for the moment and enjoy Christmas, hm? I just want to be _here_ \- with my family and my friends, not at school, not thinking about – you know?"

She gave the older girl a tentative, consoling smile, reaching for her hand to give it a friendly squeeze. Hermione returned the gesture with a somewhat watery but understanding smile and a nod. Ginny hated to see those tears in her friend's eyes, even more so when she had been the cause of it, knowing just how deep and literal Hermione's scars went. Her friend was one of the bravest and strongest people she knew, yet she also knew her too well. She was not _in_vulnerable and was as quick to tears as the rest of them.

"I'm sorry, Hermione."

She smiled reassuringly. "It's alright, Ginny. I overstepped. It is _your_ life. I'm just – as your friend – I'm worried about you, that's all."

"I know and I'm grateful that I have you as my friend." She gave her a cheeky grin. "But you know me; I can take care of myself. And if he so much as tries anything, I'll go for the balls first. He won't stand a chance against my Bat-Bogey Hex!"

Hermione rolled her eyes and smirked. "Boy, do I know." They continued to chuckle quietly as they moved to go down into the living room, arm in arm and mood changed.

Ron and Harry, who had apparently returned from the outside decorating and now settled for a game of Wizard's Chess, looked up at the two girls coming down the stairs, giggling conspiratorially, and sent each other a slightly worried look.

"Easy now, boys," Hermione chuckled as they reached them, "we're not planning some devious Christmas surprise when you wake up in the morning. Are we, Ginny?" She winked at the younger girl and Ginny scoffed in a way that clearly rattled her brother.

"Of course not! We would _never_ do such a thing! But … perhaps they _could_ do with a bit of scaring, don't you think, Hermione?" She tapped her finger playfully on her chin, "We can't have them slacking on their famous Auror reflexes, can we now?"

Harry looked like he couldn't quite figure out what facial expression he should be going for, while Ron looked positively pale. He gave a wavering laugh. "Eheh, w-what are you two up to?"

Both girls broke down laughing just as the rest of the family entered the living room.

"What's up with your faces?" George said to the boys, plopping himself down on the sofa next to them and snatching a mince pie from the tray that Molly had just passed by him.

"George! Not until dinner!" she berated him and placed it on the grand dinner table by the kitchen.

He merely shrugged, speaking with his mouth full of pie, "Can't see what harm it does, Mum. They're to be eaten anyway. By me."

Molly shook her head, "You such a child sometimes, Georgie," but looking at him she couldn't quite put as much scolding into her words and quickly returned to give his cheek a brief, affectionate kiss.

"Mum!" he cried in embarrassment and everyone who had witnessed it laughed heartily.

The evening went on from there with great food and shared tales of great friends and past comrades and there were tears as well as laughs and – well, Ginny couldn't have wished for a better Christmas. The awkwardness between Harry and her had been momentarily replaced by the easy Christmas spirits and joviality of the others, and she secretly hoped they would remain so and be able to put past feelings behind them. It wouldn't do either of them any good to be lingering on what might have been. Perhaps one day, but right now they needed to go their separate ways.

**X**

Later that night when everyone had gone to bed on full bellies and with pink cheeks, Ginny lay on her bed next to Hermione's, thinking about how the evening had went; how happy everyone had seemed for a moment, the first time since Fred's death.

"You sleeping?" Hermione asked quietly beside her.

"No."

A couple of moments went by before she spoke again. "Why _are_ you spending time with Blaise, Ginny?"

Ginny was jolted from her sleepy ruminations at the mention of Blaise's name and looked towards her friend in surprise. "I – uhm – _why_?" she squeaked, cringing at how her own voice was giving her away.

"'Why' I ask or 'why' you do?"

Ginny couldn't help but snort drily. "Always so analytical. Even at 1 AM."

Hermione responded with her own inelegant snort and both girls giggled at their respective antics.

"No, seriously, Gin," Hermione sobered in one last giggle, "why do you like Blaise? I mean – besides from the obvious?"

Ginny sputtered, "I never said I _LIKED_ him! And what do you _mean_ 'besides the obvious'?!"

"Well, I guessed you must like _something_ about him since I so often see you two together in some context or hear about it from others."

Her ears pricked up. "Others? What others?"

"Oh, I don't know… Basically everyone who has seen or noticed you two together. You do make quite the conspicuous pair, you know."

"Wha- I –" Ginny continued to splutter at this new information. "I don't see how? I mean – it's not like we're that famous at the school or anything!"

"Oh, come now, Ginny!" Hermione huffed, "You're deceiving yourself if you think so little of your own reputation! You are a bloody hero in all those little, gullible First Years' eyes! Of course; I cannot speak for Zabini … other than what I have heard –"

"Right," Ginny interrupted between her teeth before her friend could point out even more flaws in the dark skinned, former Slytherin. "_Fine_. We're bloody famous! Or _in_famous! But it is not like we've flaunted ourselves or anything like that!"

"Yeah, right," she chuckled drolly, "you are not at all a surprising sight when you are seen either yelling or bantering in the middle of the hallway or classroom or _locker room_?"

Ginny gasped. "How did you know?!"

Hermione hummed conspiratorially. "I have my sources."

Moments went by in silence as Ginny's head felt overloaded with this new information, then wondering why she was so surprised by it in the first place. She should have known people would notice and talk. Neither Blaise nor she was exactly wallflowers and together they probably stood out even more – especially because of their opposite sides in the years before and during the war.

And they _had_ made.. _a couple_ of scenes in public.

"You never answered my question," Hermione's voice cut through her musings.

"And you never answered mine," she quickly retaliated.

"Which one?"

"The 'besides the obvious'-thing. What was that about?"

"Honestly, Ginny! Blaise is a looker – despite his repugnant misuse of it – and you of all people should have noticed that by now! Don't you deny it! After all, did you not take his vanity complex down a notch once?" Hermione's voice was tipping on indecent mirth by now and Ginny growled in annoyance.

"Alright, yes, I did – and _YES_ he is bloody gorgeous, okay!? Satisfied?!" she breathed in exasperation and mumbled into her pillow, "Only a fool would say otherwise."

"So you admit it?"

"What?"

"That you like him?"

Ginny shot up from the bed. "Hermione, you're putting words in my mouth!"

"I bet you want to have _him_ put something in your mouth, though," she barely withheld her laugh. At Ginny's scandalized expression, Hermione finally broke down laughing. "Oh, come now, Ginny. None of us are virgins. You can tell me," she cajoled and giggled again like a First Year, sharing dirty stories.

Ginny huffed wryly at her friend's amusement. "I can't. I'm trying to get the images of you and my brother having a go at each other in the Forest of Dean - while Harry is sitting _right_ _outside_ \- out of my head," she spoke sneakily and Hermione quickly sobered.

"It was not like that. That time didn't really count. It really happened after the war when –"

"Hermione, as much as I'm here for you as a friend whenever you need it, I _really_ don't want to hear any details of my brother's 'assets', thanks."

"Ah. Sorry," Hermione flushed, having the decency to look embarrassed.

Silence once again sufficed the air as Ginny lay back with a huff. Since when had they become so talkative about boys? It wasn't like any of them had ever put that much value into the usual girly chatter or having a boyfriend and all that. Was this what life after a war came to; with no looming threats hanging over your head?

She sighed inwardly_. I guess this is what you call normalcy, Ginny._

"So," Hermione said teasingly after a while, and Ginny growled in frustration at what her friend was about to say, "you haven't done it with him yet?"

Ginny knew she clearly couldn't make her friend believe otherwise. Well, not tonight, at least. She simply lifted her head, giving a pointed eyebrow in response, yet Hermione continued to smile irritatingly conspiratorially.

"_Right_, Hermione. Like _your_ love life is such a picture-perfect," Ginny said brusquely.

Taken by surprise at the comment, the mirth left her face as she looked away and shrugged. "Well, Ron is … Ron. You know your brother; he's far from perfect but nor am I. I've realized that now. I'm not sure –," she suddenly looked pensive and somewhat insecure, picking at the threads of her blanket and finally sighed, "I'm not sure if we'll be one of those couples who stay together for life, but for now I'm content."

Ginny studied her in contemplation, realizing her friend had matured beyond years and still remained such a young girl, inexperienced in so many things in life. Just like herself.

"I don't blame you for having your doubts," Ginny shrugged sympathetically and Hermione stared at her in surprise as she continued, "I love him, make no mistake, but anybody who crushes on my idiotic brother is either foolishly brave or has the greatest tolerance for mankind in my eyes."

Hermione shot a quizzical look. "You think I'm wasting my time?" she said, slightly hurt.

Ginny shook her head. "No, I didn't mean to belittle your feelings for him, Hermione. And I'm _certain_ he's head-over-heels for you! It's only that which you said yourself: I'm not so sure either he'll be able to hold on to you forever. I think," she swallowed, feeling traitorous to her own blood, but she needed to be honest to her friend, "I think you deserve more than what my brother can give you."

A thick silence followed in the wake of her words. Ginny gulped.

"I think, perhaps, you are right," Hermione spoke slowly, subdued, a slight tremble to her voice. She looked up at Ginny and reached up to give her hand a squeeze, eyes watery but grateful. "Thanks for your honesty."

"You know, I didn't say you should dismiss the possibility of him proving his worth just yet," Ginny gave her her own trembling smile, a teasing note to it, "He can be an obtuse ass sometimes, but he loves you."

She gave a half-hearted nod. "I'm sure he'll make someone – if not me – a terrific husband some day," a somewhat sad smile hanging on her lips as she let go of Ginny's hand and they both settled back into their covers.

Some time went by, both of them ruminating on their conversation. Then, at last, Hermione spoke quietly: "I do not know Blaise, but I know and trust you, Ginny. If you truly like him, I will not judge you. And if you ever need a listening ear, you know I'm here for you."

Ginny swallowed a lump in her throat. "Thank you, Hermione," she answered softly, truly thankful of her friend's considerate, open mind and her avoidance of the subject of Harry, in particular. She wasn't ready to admit what she had come to realize just yet.

As Hermione's breathing gradually slowed to a deep slumber beside her, Ginny lay staring up in the dark, still trying to wrap herself around the dark skinned wizard that persisted in her thoughts, until she too drifted into a, for once, restful sleep.


	15. The matter at stake

It was a clear, cold January morning; the first day after the Holidays, and the winter sun was streaming in through the high, slim windows to the Great Hall of Hogwarts, presently filled with prattling students.

Headmistress McGonagall had only a moment ago announced the grave matter at stake (of course leaving out any mention of Ginny or Blaise's involvement in the Dementor incident) together with the rest of the staff and a flock of gloomy-looking Aurors who had been sent by the Ministry.

Uneasiness towards the presence of the latter was already hanging in the air when the students had first arrived and by McGonagall's announcement gasps of panic had naturally resounded among them, especially the younger ones who had never been close to - much less _seen_ – such horrific creatures. The situation eerily reminded Ginny of her second year when Sirius Black was loose at the school and _Dementors_ were the ones sent to catch him.

_How ironic._

As always, McGonagall stayed unperturbed throughout the chaos and levelly and firmly reminded everyone to stay calm and have faith in the protection of the school, its staff and the Aurors. However, necessary precaution needed to be taken which meant any Hogsmeade visits, Quidditch tournament and training were temporarily suspended (despite the gravity of the matter, this announcement was met by a chorus of disapproval among the students) and every student was prohibited from venturing out on school grounds – unless one had special permission from the staff or was accompanied by an Auror – until the Ministry had the matter resolved. Any further questions and special requests were directed towards the staff, the Head Boy and Girl and the Prefects who would be instructed by the Aurors in the necessary practicalities and rules regarding the safety.

Ginny, however, had an inkling that several paranoid parents would send owls next morning to pull their children home from school. In post-war times you could never be too careful, it seemed.

She studied McGonagall's slightly weary face after the announcement and reckoned this already sat heavily on her mind, among everything else. Still, the Headmistress held herself as stoic and strong as ever, deepening Ginny's respect for the Scotswoman.

She shot a glance at the table where Blaise and the rest of his House were sitting to gawk his reaction to it all, but only managed to spot his carved profile and knitted brows of apprehension - directed towards the Headmistress as well it seemed - before he turned away, his lean, slightly tense back facing her.

Students still remained anxious and a nervous chatter erupted in the Hall as the Aurors silently spread out and trickled down between the aisles and along the walls, their serious gazes trailing systematically over the frazzled faces of students, as if looking for suspicious signs amongst them. It was probably mere protocol but it sent unwilling goose bumps down Ginny's spine nonetheless.

Instinctively ducking her head, she mentally berated herself for acting so foolishly guilty. After all her time in the company of Mad-Eye, Tonks, Lupin and the rest of the Aurors during the war, she had apparently forgotten everything she had learned from them._ 'Constant vigilance!' _as Mad-Eye so infamously would yell when someone lost courage.

A wave of sadness hit her as she remembered past and deceased acquaintances; those brave souls who had given their lives so that everyone present in the Great Hall and outside these walls could live on in peace.

Those faces who had been so alive, so present only mere months ago.

She felt her throat constrict, her surroundings becoming slightly blurred and trivial. Quickly excusing herself from whatever little breakfast she had managed to consume, she left the Great Hall and threw herself headfirst into her Head Girl duties, scouting the corridors for the students who had missed the Great Hall meeting or who were otherwise in need of guidance. She spent about an hour doing so, welcoming the distraction from her depressing thoughts, and had an hour or so left before her own class.

Having just guided a bunch of severely lost students towards Flitwick's classroom, she ran into an excited Parvati Patil who was handing out flyers to a bunch of overly giddy Sixth Year's girls.

"Ginny!" she exclaimed when she spotted Ginny who was unable to escape the twin's attention.

"Oh, hi, Parvati," she greeted half-heartedly, hoping she could avoid one of her usual gossiping tales about who was making out with who at Hogwarts.

Parvati, however, didn't sense her reluctance and steered eagerly towards her.

"Have you been invited to the party tomorrow night thrown by the Seventh Years from _PL_? You should totally come! It'll be the party of the year, they say! Or, that is, the _new_ year. Here you go," she rattled on and handed her one of the flyers she was holding, naming time and place.

"Um, _PL_?" Ginny asked dumbly, studying the flyer.

"Yeah, you know, House of _Politics & Law_? The old Ravenclaw? The one Hermione's in now? I know, the name sucks, totally drab, but all the hot Seventh Year boys go there," she said and winked conspiratorially. "It'll be super! And it'll take our minds off that dreadful Dementor thing happening, right?" An automatic chill went down Ginny's spine at the memory of the Dementor, before Parvati continued, "You will come, won't you?"

"Erm, tomorrow night?" Ginny hesitated, "I'm not sure. I have a lot of Head Girl duties and then there's that big essay for Poti-"

"Ginevra Weasley! I have never heard you putting up excuses for not going to a House party!" Parvati gawped, looking genuinely indignant. "Since when has school work come before having fun for you?"

Ginny blinked then shrugged resignedly, not overly surprised by her friend's reaction. "Since the war, I guess."

Parvati's mouth snapped shut, having not expected such a bleak, honest answer and sent her an empathetic look. "Oh. Right," she murmured and studied Ginny's wistful expression, then righted herself, speaking more cheerily, "Well, even so, I do hope you will allow yourself some fun once in a while, OK? No need to fall into a pit of despair. The war is over and we all try and move on and, besides, we are allowed to have a bit of fun, right?" She gave Ginny's arm a gentle squeeze and smiled encouragingly. "Come. Won't you?"

Ginny looked at her old friend, having almost forgotten how kind and funny Parvati could be underneath all the frivolous chit-chat. She tried to remember the Ginny she once was, the one Parvati referred to, who never backed down from the chance of ditching boring homework for a party. She wasn't sure _that_ _Ginny_ would ever come back, but maybe she _should_ give tomorrow night's party a shot. It wasn't like she couldn't finish her Head Girl duties and essay before then. And who knew? Maybe she hadn't entirely lost the ability to have genuine fun. Besides, she could think of no convincing way to get out of this one.

"Alright, Parvati," she sighed and gave a somewhat strained smile, "I'll come."

"Great!" she beamed and hugged her. "See you in class then, Ginny - and at the party!" she called back to her as she skipped down the corridor, handing out more flyers to passing students who instantly broke out in shrill cries of excitement at the prospect of an older student House party.

Ginny sighed again, shaking her head and continued down her route through the hallways and corridors for any more lost students, while trying to sort out her feelings about what she had just agreed to – on top of everything else.

"Oh, Miss Weasley?"

The Headmistress's familiar, authoritative voice interrupted her walk and she turned to see McGonagall coming towards her.

"Yes, Headmistress?"

"I wonder if you would care to join me at my office presently?" she requested matter-of-factly when she reached her, firm, grey gaze holding hers. "I would like to talk to you about a private matter."

She didn't have to explain any further what this 'private matter' was regarding. Her serious tone hinted to a very specific, recent matter that Ginny was all too aware of needed to be dealt with but had hoped to somehow avoid all together.

"Oh, um, yes, I have some time to kill before class, so I will be able to join you," Ginny replied, hating the nervousness creeping into her voice.

"Excellent, Miss Weasley," the Headmistress nodded in formal satisfaction. "If you will follow me now, please?"

Leading the way, McGonagall strode briskly towards her office, her brown ropes swishing around her legs, with Ginny following gingerly behind.

Just before reaching the familiar gargoyle, McGonagall turned to her. "You should know," she spoke in a more subdued voice, "I have asked the Head Auror from the Ministry to join us regarding this… _private_ matter I want to discuss with you. It is merely protocol, of course. A matter of safety precautions that we need to take into account given recent events. I hope you understand." The Headmistress regarded her with a meaningful look and Ginny nodded, trying but failing to calm her nerves.

"I understand."

Turning away again, McGonagall uttered the password to the gargoyle which instantly started to turn, revealing the staircase leading up to the office.

"Oh, and I have asked Mr. Zabini to be present as well," the older witch added straightforwardly, just as they both stepped up the moving staircase.

Ginny's heart leapt to her throat.

_Oh, no._

_Blaise…_

They had both known it would happen sooner or later and however much they had mentally prepared themselves for this possibility during the Holidays, she personally couldn't shake the feeling of being led to an inquisition; an…interrogation – _despite_ McGonagall's reassurances otherwise.

She could only _imagine_ how Blaise must be feeling at the moment. How would he take it? Being dragged in – in front of the Head Auror and Headmistress to relive the nightmare of the Dementor's attack; to be questioned and suspected for a crime he could go to Azkaban for? In a cool, off-handed stride? A volatile, vulnerable mess? Would he begin to blame her even?

No, he had seemed almost offended when he had cornered her before the Holidays and accused _her_ of taking all the blame. Maybe it had just been a display of typical, masculine pride; not wanting to be 'rescued by a girl and a war heroine'. But she had understood it better afterwards. His lashing out was more like a panicked reaction. Almost … almost as if the fear of being dragged through the mud and ending up in Azkaban had him more scared than ever before and not wanting her to get caught up in his personal and public humiliation.

And if true, she had no clue what to make of that thought.

As the stairs revolved, bringing them higher and closer to the Headmistress's Office, Ginny's nerves got the better of her. She wasn't sure she would be able to save his skin. She'd do her best, of course, but if he was anything _but_ sensible and honest, she wasn't sure he'd stand a chance of escaping suspicion.

She just hoped he'd keep a cool head.

Finally entering the office, the first thing her eyes fell upon was the back of the Italian as he was sitting and waiting tensely in one of the chairs in front of McGonagall's desk, his long legs splayed before him. An imposing, austere-looking Auror stood stiff as a ramrod a couple of feet away from him, hands behind his back and apprehensive eyes never leaving the young man in the chair.

"Ah, you're here," McGonagall announced, presumably referring to Zabini's attendance, and stepped past Ginny's momentarily immobile form and up to the desk. "Very well, then we can begin." She sat down behind it and gestured to Ginny to do the same in the chair beside Blaise.

Hesitant, Ginny stepped forward, her eyes darting nervously between Blaise's tense figure, the grave Auror and the patiently waiting Headmistress, before perching herself on the hard wooden chair next to Blaise. She tried to catch his gaze but he was averting it and instead stared ruefully into the floor, a frown marring his forehead.

"Miss Weasley, may I introduce you to Mr. Fintan Rowe, Head Auror of the Auror Department in the Ministry," McGonagall said, gesturing and drawing Ginny's attention to the man in question who in turn stepped forward and let his flinty, hawk-like eyes settle uncomfortably on Ginny. "Mr. Rowe, this is Ginevra Weasley, our Head Girl, who was with Mr. Zabini when it happened," she addressed the Auror.

Ginny gulped and noticed the further tensing of muscles in Blaise's right arm, his hand curling tightly around the armrest.

"Good day to you, Miss Weasley," the Auror formally greeted with a curt nod, his scrutinizing look shifting between the two students in front of him.

It was all Ginny could do to not squirm in her seat.

McGonagall leaned forward, perching her elbows on the desktop as her steely but familiar grey eyes zoomed in on Ginny and Blaise. "I think you both know why I have gathered you here today," she began levelly. "Mr. Rowe and I want to talk to you about the incident that occurred in the Shrieking Shack just before the Holidays. We would like to get _your_ perspectives of what exactly transpired in that house, as well as what led up prior to the incident and afterwards, in order for us to form a general view and assess the present situation."

Ginny was about to open her mouth in protest, but McGonagall anticipated it and held up a hand. "I know you explained it to me the day it happened, Miss Weasley, but as I said I would like for you to repeat it in the company of both Mr. Rowe and I. And I have asked Mr. Zabini to join us so that we can get it confirmed from his point of view," she added, shooting a pensive glance towards the latter before addressing Ginny again. "I know you may have questions too, but I suggest you let me finish explaining before you start jumping to unnecessary conclusions about any final decision-making on our parts."

Crestfallen and feeling agitated as well as helpless, Ginny sat back in her chair, glancing between the two serious-looking adults in front of her and fidgeted nervously with her hands. Much to her dismay, nothing escaped the looming Head Auror's observant eyes which narrowed considerably at her behavior.

McGonagall continued in calm severity, eyes trained on the two students. "Now, I have _not_ brought you here because we suspect you are somehow at fault for the Dementor's appearance. I will have you both know that _no one_ is put to blame or under suspicion before all facts are cleared up and the rogue Dementor is securely apprehended. _That_ is our main goal. Until then, you are still my students and under the protection of the school, so you shall not go around fearing for your lives but instead trust Mr. Rowe and I to put matters straight and not let rumors fly. The Aurors are here to protect _all_ the students and not pass immediate judgment on anyone without any concrete evidence." The Headmistress threw the stern-looking Auror at her side an equally stern glance. "Am I right, Mr. Rowe?"

"Right, Ma'am," the man nodded in a terse reply though he continued to closely monitor Blaise, whose eyes hadn't broken away from burning a hole in the floor.

McGonagall pursed her mouth in slight displeasure at the man's persistently suspicious attitude, then cleared her throat. "Very well. Now, do you have any questions? Miss Weasley?"

Ginny stared back, dumbfounded; no longer sure what to ask exactly.

"I, um, I'm not sure, Headmistress…"

"Well, then," McGonagall quickly resolved when Ginny left her sentence hanging there, "let us move on, shall we?" Throwing one last, expectant look at Blaise but still getting no significant response from him, she sighed and looked back at Ginny. "Would you care to begin, Miss Weasley?"

Faltering, Ginny cast Blaise a sidelong glance, feeling both sympathetic and slightly indignant of his unresponsive, sullen behavior, leaving her to apparently speak their case for them.

Increasingly anxious under the watchful eyes of McGonagall and the Auror, she sighed resignedly and started relaying the story once more. The adults listened intently, once in a while interrupting her to pose a couple of clarifying questions before they let her move on. Though she hardly recalled whether she noticed any footprints in the tunnel or anything looking out of place in the Shack, she tried her best to remember every detail. The more specific info she gave, the quicker they could get this little inquiry over with and get out.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Blaise's right knee had started bouncing restlessly.

"… and so, when we'd finished our drinks, we came back here and went to class as usual, not really thinking about the consequences of what we'd just witnessed. We _should_ have, of course, but it just didn't really hit before I approached you, Headmistress, later that day and told you what had happened." Ginny's gaze once again flicked towards Blaise. "I think Blai– I mean Zabini must have noticed something was off; he sought me out the following week to ask what was going on, and I relayed what I had done and what you had informed me, Headmistress. He was... he was clearly in shock, as well," she trailed off, deliberately leaving out the other significant reason for his shock and what had happened afterwards before he had stormed out of the Bathroom.

They needn't know _that_, after all.

A shiver ran alongside her neck. Blaise had lifted his brooding gaze from the floor and turned it halfway towards her in renewed interest, presumably at the subtext of her words.

Feeling her heart close to hammering its way out of her chest, she tore her eyes away from his intense, inscrutable stare and turned it towards the other occupants of the room.

McGonagall leaned back in contemplative silence; her always studious gaze belied nothing suspicious regarding Ginny's testimony. The older woman's complete trust in her calmed her heart somewhat.

Rowe, on the other hand, kept his suspicion in high gear, it seemed.

Stepping forward and out of the shadows of the bookcases, the Auror's hard gaze took in both students. "Tell me, Miss Weasley: What _exactly_ is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Zabini?"

Ginny's stomach somersaulted and she felt rather than saw how Blaise's body became even more rigid at the audacity of the question.

"_Really_, Mr. Rowe," McGonagall interjected in mild indignation on behalf of her students. "I don't see the point in such a personal inquiry. Whatever relationship Miss Weasley and Mr. Zabini have established must be deemed private and irrelevant regarding the matter at stake, surely."

"I beg your pardon, Ma'am, but I respectfully disagree," Rowe drawled, his straight-faced, collected demeanor seeming almost _too_ calm. "I find it very much relevant to the case considering the _past_ _affiliations_ of Mr. Zabini," his eyes becoming particularly hard as he trained them on the latter.

Blaise was staring wide-eyed back at the man, making Ginny want to reach out to his clenched hand on the armrest and grab it.

She was not sure if it was to restrain him from seizing his wand or to soothe his worried mind.

McGonagall now turned with a frown to the Auror. "Mr. Rowe, I thought we agreed _not_ to pass _any_ judgment based on mere prejudice on the students and certainly not without any concrete evidence. What exactly are you implying?"

Ginny's heart practically catapulted out of her chest.

The Auror, unperturbed by the rebuke, shrugged with an air of superiority, his tone venturing from suspicious to sardonic. "Only that – since the matter is _so_ grave – we must consider _all_ factors regarding what transpired. Given Mr. Zabini's ties with the Dark Side before and during the war, I have reason to believe he could have either _planned_ the attack of the Dementor, targeting Miss Weasley among others, _or_ – whether the nature of their relationship is closer than assumed – _Imperiused_ or simply _persuaded_ Miss Weasley to join him in a very strategic attack on the school."

"_WHAT_?!" Ginny and Blaise protested in chorus; Blaise close to jumping out of his chair, his right hand twisting dangerously towards his wand.

"Those are some very serious accusations, Mr. Rowe," McGonagall proceeded in stern professionalism, though she was clearly equally shocked by the Head Auror's direct hostility. "I must remind you that this is not some personal or public vendetta against Mr. Zabini on behalf of the Auror Department, simply because he – like many other students and their families – out of sheer fear for his life was under the oppressive influence of Lord Voldemort. Mr. Zabini's behavior since the end of the war has been absolutely exemplary and honorable – I can personally testify to that – and, most importantly, we do not have any concrete evidence of any lingering ties to the Dark Side. And I must strongly protest to the accusations that Miss Weasley should have had _anything _to do with the appearance of the Dementor. I have _complete_ faith in her innocence in this matter and, for the world of me, I cannot believe Mr. Zabini to have–", she bit out the words with difficulty, thin nostrils flaring, "_coerced_ her in any way or form."

Ginny wanted to cheer the elder witch. Few dared to look McGonagall in the eyes and challenge her, especially when her loyal nature sprung forth like a lioness protecting its cubs whenever the students of Hogwarts came into question.

Rowe, however, seemed a hard-bitten character himself; neither to be led nor driven, and simply narrowed his eyes at the Headmistress, his jaw ticking in slight annoyance.

"Must I remind you, _Ma'am_, that another former student and even close acquaintance of Mr. Zabini's – a Mr. Draco _Malfoy_ – was able to let the Death Eaters into this school not so long ago?"

McGonagall's sharp jaw hardened, a pained look crossing her face at the all too recent memory of the attack on the school before it was quickly replaced by a warning flash of grey fire. "I am very well aware, Mr. Rowe. I was _there_, after all. Yet, as the trials this summer revealed, Mr. Malfoy was _also_ just a scared boy; intimidated and pressured into his actions, fearing for his life and those of his family. I have every reason to believe none of the Dark Wizards' children were _truly_ at fault in the end but have tried to redeem themselves and stay out of the limelight, given the harsh prejudice thrown against them, ever since the war ended. That _includes_ Mr. Zabini."

A brief, but intense stare-off between the two powerful wizards ensued – with Rowe clearly wanting to protest.

"Very well," he finally acquiesced through gritted teeth, though he didn't seem the least bit convinced by Blaise's complete innocence, shooting one last, distrustful look at the young wizard – which was returned tenfold – before schooling his countenance into more professional, stoic folds.

McGonagall cleared her throat, returning to somewhat strained formalities and the primary matter at stake.

Ginny didn't exactly feel calmer by the inflated tension in the air and vehemently tried to ignore how Blaise's long, elegant body next to her was entirely coiled in repressed frustration.

_Please, Zabini_, she prayed silently. _Don't do anything stupid_.

Though she doubted he would throw a tantrum, she feared for the words coming out of his mouth. A few strikes and before they knew it the knife would have sunk in. And ruined him. She knew him to be smarter than that but she didn't know him that well _yet_ – at least, not to be sure how he reacted in such dire circumstances as this could turn out to be. She wished she _did_ so that she could read him and perhaps even prevent any mistakes on his part.

Why she felt so concerned and protective about him, she couldn't really fathom. _She_ stood nearly as accused as he did from what that ass-hat of an Auror had even dared to suggest!

Mirroring Blaise's attitude, unable to help herself as the roaring indignation swamped her, she scowled up at the arrogant Auror beside McGonagall whose seated posture had turned stiff.

"Now," McGonagall said in a clipped voice, pursing her lips. "Mr. Zabini," she addressed him pointedly, making Blaise swivel his dark gaze from the Auror to the Headmistress. "Would you be so kind to relay your side of the story?"

He shifted slightly in the chair, arm muscles contracting under his sleeve, belying his discomfort about the whole affair as he kept a watchful eye on the Auror who had retreated back to his shadowed corner. One glance at Ginny told her that he too realized that this moment was inescapable and reluctantly schooled his features as he started telling them how he had first approached her with the idea of making a short cut to the Shrieking Shack through the tunnels under the Whomping Willow.

"I know Weasley to not exactly be a squeamish kind of girl when it comes to getting a bit dirty – in the literal sense," he added, unable to resist a smirk which made Ginny subtly roll her eyes, "– and that's partly why I suggested we'd take the tunnels. That, and given the winter frost had just set in, I thought we could at least avoid getting _frostbite_ from our trip to the Shack," he gibed, but couldn't escape the tightness in his voice and decisively avoided everyone's eyes.

Ginny blinked, baffled by his response. She hadn't even bothered to ponder upon his choice of short-cut. Back then she had just quickly dismissed it as another 'typical Slytherin trait' to cut corners with school regulations and opt for the easiest, unofficial entrance to Hogsmeade. That his primary reason for doing so had been with _her_ in mind as well rattled her. Sure, he might just tactically have name-dropped her; pointing out his well-meaning concerns and intentions so that he could escape some of the suspicion already hanging over his head, but somehow his _too _offhand mentioning of her, mockingly playing it off as if it was the most natural thing to consider, ironically made his answer seem all the more genuine. As if… he actually _cared_.

From the opposite side of the desk, McGonagall gave a pensive hum. "I see. Highly irregular conduct, nevertheless, Mr. Zabini," she reprimanded with a frown, "given that students are _not _permitted to disturb the Whomping Willow nor use the unauthorized passageway under it to reach Hogsmeade or the area surrounding it. As a Prefect you _should_ have known better."

A conflicted display of emotions crossed the chiseled features of his face as Blaise regarded the Headmistress and then bent his head in the barest hinting of shame, a rare sight indeed.

McGonagall's steely eyes turned to Ginny next. "And you, Miss Weasley. You are the _Head Girl_. You should surely have known better than going along with it."

Ginny's cheeks reddened and she too bowed her head, giving a slight nod.

There was a moment of silence before McGonagall cleared her throat and continued, some of the austerity in her voice abating. "But I can see how you saw it as perfectly innocent and inconsequential at the time since it was only the two of you and saw the tunnels as a means of cutting your route short and avoid the cold. Because of that I will let this one go," both Ginny and Blaise snapped up their heads in surprise at her words before she added, in typical McGonagall fashion, "but I will not be as lenient if it happens again. Do you understand?"

They nodded gingerly, casting a sidelong peek at each other as they sat stiffly back and anxiously awaited whatever would come next.

Rowe clearly wasn't satisfied with McGonagall's tolerant attitude towards their mishap as he snorted lowly in the background.

"Now," McGonagall proceeded, ignoring the Auror, "would you care to elaborate what happened next, Mr. Zabini?"

Blaise's Adam's apple bobbed as he hunched slightly forward. "Well, um, as Weasley said, we met at the Stone Circle and went to the Whomping Willow which I momentarily petrified, after which we went down underneath it and into the tunnels leading to the Shack." He looked up but was only met by McGonagall's head nodding for him to continue, to which he gave a short, impatient huff and folded his hands. "When we got there, we went upstairs to have a look around and decided how to proceed with the task assigned to us, by you Headmistress, when the Dementor suddenly appeared," he rushed ahead, pointedly ignoring to mention any other details of what had transpired between them.

Ginny swallowed nervously as she took in that usually haughty, dignified profile of his and the edgy expression now marring his aristocratic brow. His leg had started jumping again, but this time she sensed it wasn't just because of the looming Auror in the corner watching them like a hawk or the possible repercussions of today's inquiry.

She wanted to reach out and calm his jerking knee, realizing the terror of the Dementor's appearance that fateful day still sat deeply within him.

"And how exactly did you manage to fend it off, Mr. Zabini?," the Auror's drawl crept up from behind McGonagall, making the hair on the back of Ginny's neck stand on end.

"I- I'm not sure …," Blaise faltered and frowned in confusion.

"You're not – _sure_?" the Auror's voice rose with sardonic incredulity.

Blaise grunted in slight annoyance. "Well, _yes_, I am _sure_ I used the Patronus charm, but it all happened instinctively – all at once," he tried to explain and swallowed hard before he averted his eyes, "I had… I had never used it before."

"You had never used the Patronus charm before?" Rowe repeated with emphasis and to such an annoying effect that it made Ginny want to throttle him.

"I just told you, didn't I?!" Blaise retorted with an unusual sneer and glared up at the Head Auror, reminding Ginny of Malfoy's old antics. Clearly, his nerves were on edge and who could blame him?

"So you immediately cast the spell when you saw it appear?" McGonagall clarified in a composed manner, her tone staying objective.

"I– no, I – I mean _we_–," Blaise threw Ginny a fleeting look, "sort of stumbled back in shock at first, at the sight of it. I recall I was behind Weasley and pulled her towards me as it advanced on us in the doorway and then – then it just started … _sucking_," his voice wavered, sending an icy shudder down Ginny's spine at the memory, and he swallowed hard again.

"On who?" Rowe gruffly cut in.

"Why, on Weasley, of course!" the wizard beside her snapped impatiently as he gestured in her direction. "She has told you so already."

"Yes, but we'd like to hear your side of the story, young man," McGonagall replied in a steady voice, sensing the boy's growing unease.

"I don't see why; it's exactly the same," he grumbled under his breath but Ginny couldn't blame him for objecting to the absurdity of it all. _Why didn't they just take their words for it and trust them?_

Overlooking the remark, McGonagall patiently gestured for him to continue. "Please go on, Mr. Zabini. What do you recall happened next?"

He gulped, pressing his hands harder together. "Well… it all happened so quickly. One moment it was concentrating on Weasley, hovering above her like a – a _parasite_ and the next it had – it had turned towards me and–," his voice broke and despite his dark complexion, Ginny was positive he had gone a couple of shades paler.

"I see," McGonagall observed quietly.

"Headmistress, we've already gone through this part," Ginny intervened. "Can't we –"

"Please, Miss Weasley," McGonagall apprehended her calmly, shaking her head. "It is imperative that we hear the entire story from Mr. Zabini's mouth. Let him speak."

"But I –"

"Miss Weasley, _please_."

She snapped her mouth shut, knowing it was futile to persist in front of the Scotswoman, and turned her worried gaze back to the hunched-over boy next to her. He simply stared blankly ahead of him, glassy-eyed and still, his large, graceful hands twisting together.

"Go on, Mr. Zabini," the older witch prompted after a beat.

Blaise exhaled and the muscles of his arm flexed. "It was horrible," he muttered, blinking. "At some point we must have fallen down because when I came to the next, we were lying on the ground and it… it was going at Ginevra again–" Ginny's breath caught at the sound of her name rolling over his tongue for the first time, seemingly unconsciously "–and she was totally out of it; almost blacked-out. And I just acted instinctively, I guess. I reached for my wand, pointed it at the Dementor and cast the spell. It was enough for it to recoil and leave the Shack."

If it hadn't been for the gravity of the tale and their situation, not to mention the surrounding atmosphere, Ginny could have laughed. Only a person who had never experienced a certain kind of spell first-hand before would be so particular in his description of it; even mentioning the very purpose of the spell – as if slightly surprised that it would actually work in the end.

"And you are _sure_ you saw nothing of the Dementor afterwards when you left the Shack?" Rowe addressed the both of them with a serious mien, stepping closer. "No one following you to Hogsmeade or any suspicious-looking characters out of the ordinary at The Three Broomsticks?"

Ginny, coming up short, mutely shook her head, darting a look at Blaise to see him mirror her response. After all, _they_ had likely been the most 'suspicious' sight in the inn that day, so they hadn't really noticed if anyone of its staring occupants had seemed _particularly_ struck by their presence. There had been Podsworth, of course, but the former Hufflepuff didn't seem the type to be plotting such schemes against them and the school.

The Auror gave a short hum in response, frowning. McGonagall seemed troubled as well.

"Very well," the Headmistress finally said after a moment's pensive silence, realizing her two students still sat waiting, anxious for their verdict. She glanced up at the Auror who nodded solemnly in return and turned her gaze back at Ginny and Blaise.

"I think we have everything we need, for now. We will continue to look into the matter while the rogue Dementor is found and apprehended. Until then, be prepared to be summoned again to my office in case we need some further clarifications on certain matters of your involvement that day. Though, as I said, you shall not fear any prosecutions or smear campaigns of your persons. Mr. Rowe and I will keep this matter between us and only share it with those involved who have our complete trust. You can count on that."

A familiar twinkle – reminiscent of that of Dumbledore's – momentarily appeared in McGonagall's intent, grey gaze as she spoke those last words, settling the tornado in Ginny's stomach somewhat. Still, she felt anxious for the fate of Blaise and the ongoing apprehension between the former Slytherin and the Head Auror in the room. Despite McGonagall's words, she wasn't entirely sure the Auror - nor his Department - could be trusted given his obvious bias. The fact that Ron, Harry and Neville were currently working under this guy and _a part_ of a possible 'smear campaign' (which McGonagall had hinted to) was not a thought she could even bear to entertain at the moment.

Suddenly she needed air.

"Thank you for your cooperation today. You may go."

She barely heard the Headmistress's words before she had risen from the chair, as if in slow-motion, managed to give a curt nod to the Headmistress and the Head Auror and moved towards the door, feeling their eyes burning into the back of her neck.

Blaise had followed her example, walking slightly quicker given his long legs, and reached the door before her, his lean frame hunched and tense as he wrenched the door open and exited, scurrying down the already turning stairs.

Stumbling slightly out of her daze, she hurried after him.

"Blaise? _Blaise_!"

He didn't stop but continued downwards until the entrance to the corridor was revealed and he exited it. Before she even reached it, he had gone.

Feeling unusually out of breath, as if her heart was beating its way out through her throat with all that adrenaline and nervousness pumping through her veins, she stood in the silent, empty corridor and wondered why she always ended up like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly belated question, but I was wondering what you think about the old Hogwarts Houses being dismantled and re-placed in this fic? Do you think it a realistic scenario after the war and agree with the reason why? Or do you think McGonagall would have faced the post-war prejudice and accusations against Slytherin and anything Death Eater-related differently and kept the old Houses in order to dispel said prejudice? I would love to hear your opinions :)


	16. What lies heavy on my mind

The following day – after the little 'inquiry' at McGonagall's office – Ginny had been moderately occupied with her Head Girl chores and the buck load of homework she needed to get done before the party she – for some mysterious reason – had agreed to go to that same night.

Still, she felt the day dragging on; her limbs feeling dull and heavy, her mind elsewhere; joggling with the solemn words spoken yesterday, repeating them over and over again as if they would somehow reveal the true intentions behind them themselves.

"… _the nature of your relationship … past affiliations … he either planned the attack of the Dementor … _Imperiused_ or _persuaded_ Miss Weasley to join him … attack on the school …"_

"… _be prepared to be summoned again … further clarifications on certain matters of your involvement that day … our complete trust…"_

She didn't like this waiting; not knowing what was going to happen, feeling her nerves unraveled by some sort of pressing paranoia. Like a turbulent current under still water.

More so by the fact that she hadn't told anyone about it. Not even Hermione.

The latter was momentarily back at Hogwarts from her internship at the Ministry and, for once, they were able to coordinate their time tables so they could study together and chat for a bit.

Visibly disturbed by the news of the rogue Dementor on the school grounds, Hermione immediately started ranting on – in true, indignant Hermione style – about the complex, juridical aftermath of war and how Magical Law was currently being enforced, especially concerning the capture of rogue, Dark Creatures such as Dementors. She didn't agree with all of the Ministry's methods in this regard nor their somewhat biased categorizations of what exactly made a Magical Creature _Dark_ or dangerous_._ That was the main reason behind her internship there, she told; to get a foot inside, get to know the system and know what to improve if she landed a Ministry position at some point.

"The Ministry is really trying to keep up a diplomatic, calm façade in midst of all the chaos, I know, but you should hear what goes on behind the scenes, Ginny!" Hermione gritted her teeth, cheeks pink. "The most _outrageous_ gossip – practically _hate speech_ – and prejudiced indictments being made by a bunch of fearful hypocrites who know all too well what happened before and during the war but are all too happy to ride the recent, political wave for personal gain. I tell you! If _we_ are not the future generation to show the ones to come how to make a better world than the one we grew up in, _then who are?!_" she hissed, her unruly curls sparking, and gestured wildly with her arms from the secluded spot where they sat in the quiet library; books, quills and papers spread out between them.

Ginny stared back at her, not knowing whether to smile at her friend's righteous anger or to open her mouth and spill her guts.

Opting for a distraction from the touchy matter, she cleared her throat after a moment of silence when Hermione's temper had abated a bit.

"Right. Well, speaking of improvement," she cringed inwardly at the lame crossover, "I, apparently, am in need of vamping up my social life – Parvati, of course, was so kind to remind me – so, I was actually considering going to your House Party tonight." She peered over at her friend hopefully. "Are you coming as well?"

Hermione, who had observed her with raised brows, was now biting her lip. "Um, no, I can't. I'm sorry, Ginny," she quickly added when she saw the other girl's disappointed face. "I have an important Ministry report I have to finish before tonight and then I have to get back to London … to meet up with Ron, actually." She blushed and a small smile appeared on her lips.

"Oh?"

"Well, yes," the curly-haired witch smiled, "It is not often we get time for that sort of thing, given our respective, demanding jobs, so I really don't want to miss this one out when we're finally able to find a day we both have time off." Her expression turned guilty, eyes pleading as she looked at Ginny. "I hope you understand."

Ginny sighed and nodded. She was the last person to protest to the building happiness of her dear brother and Hermione.

And now she _definitely_ didn't want to spoil her busy friend's good mood by telling her just how involved she was in this whole messy affair with the Dementor on the loose!

Suppressing the lingering hollowness inside her with a smile, she continued to listen to Hermione who had eased into more talkative subjects regarding how Ron, Harry and Neville fared in the Auror Department and the latest events in London.

_She really deserves this happiness_, Ginny thought as she observed her unusually cheerful friend. _She's gone through so much; she, of all people, deserves this._

When they eventually turned back to their books, her mind went instinctively to Blaise and how troubled he had looked and acted yesterday.

Had the nerves and anxiety finally gotten to him?

Or was he somewhere shagging his frustrations out with some more-than-willing chit in a broom closet?

_Probably_, she huffed and denied the way her chest contracted at the thought.

"Something the matter?" Hermione asked, raising her head from a voluminous book on Magical Law Practice.

Ginny flushed at having been caught. "Um, no, no," she quickly replied but obviously didn't fool her friend who narrowed her eyes in concern.

"Are you sure?" she pressed.

Ginny nodded, bowing her head to read the same three lines from the Potions book beneath her for the fifth time.

"OK, if you're sure," Hermione trailed off, though she didn't sound convinced.

_I can't. I can't tell her!_

… _It is not the right time, anyway._

Ginny worried her lip and stared hard into the book, chasing away her conflicted feelings and concentrated on her homework – which she _had_ to get done.

Finally, after a while, she was able to get into an objective, numb state of mind and forced her quill down to the paper and started scribbling away, not really interested in the subject at hand.

Unaware of how much time had passed, she only first looked up when Hermione started packing up her books and papers. Outside, the winter sun had already touched the horizon and darkened the library which was now more or less abandoned.

"I need to go now, I'm already late," Hermione stated hurriedly, grabbing her bag. "Again, I'm really sorry I can't join you at the party, Ginny," she spoke emphatically and came around the table to reach in and give her a hug. It was not done out of pity; Ginny knew that, but still, it didn't help the hollow feeling in her chest returning with a painful throb.

Hermione's concerned, brown eyes swarmed her vision. "Perhaps another time, alright, Gin? I would really like that," she smiled kindly down at her and Ginny managed to hold back a teary response as she watched the older girl give her one last goodbye and hurry towards the entrance and disappear out of it.

Swallowing her silly notions, she looked out the windows to the setting sun.

Maybe she should get going as well. She needed to dig up some sort of outfit for tonight, she grumbled, looking down at herself. She couldn't very well turn up in her school uniform.

Slowly standing up and packing her things together – along with her finished essays – she ruminated on what exactly she had in her wardrobe that would fit the festivities tonight. No special theme was given and she had no desire to stand out this evening.

As she left the library and walked down the corridors, she passed several jabbing students skipping towards their dorm rooms in excitement, probably having ended the last class of today and looking forward to tonight's hyped-up party. Some of them seemed a little too young and she made a mental note of looking out for any underage students seeking to crash it later on.

Most parts of the school were practically abandoned when she reached the third-floor corridor and just as she was about to round a corner on her left, she spotted the now all too familiar sight of Blaise Zabini's broad-shouldered, tall form as he was leaning suspiciously close to a girl standing against the wall. At present they were the only ones occupying the darkened corridor.

Ginny halted and quickly stepped back into the shadows unseen.

"Aw, luv, don't give me that look. You know I have my moods and you just caught me in a bad one back then. That's all," Blaise's deep voice purred, head tilted. Ginny raised a sardonic eyebrow, gathering this was his infamous 'seductive' persona.

"Huh! _'That's all'_?!" the girl scoffed indignantly and Ginny recognized her to be the former Hufflepuff who had spotted them at the inn. "How can you be so nonchalant about everything, Blaise?! You flaunted another girl – that Weasley girl" – Ginny's ears perked up – "in front of me and told me to 'sod off'! You practically threw me out! I've never been so coldly treated in my life! I might as well have thrown myself into the Great Lake instead!"

Blaise rolled his eyes, sighing with mild impatience. "You're always so dramatic, Podsworth," he stated smoothly, unimpressed. "And if I remember correctly, _you_ called _me_ a 'man-whoring sod' and some other _flattering_ words that went with it. Or rather, you screamed it at me in front of everyone at The Three Broomsticks and then stormed out of there like a rapid banshee." He raised a mocking eyebrow, but Paloma just huffed with annoyance.

"Well … you made me! How was I expected to react?"

"Oh, I don't know," he spoke wryly, "Perhaps with a little more _self-composure_. I believe that's the word you're looking for." He straightened his posture and sent her an arrogant smirk. "Something you former 'Puffs still have trouble figuring out when to use correctly. Besides, you've always known I was never a one-woman's man," he shrugged and studied his manicured hands as if she now bored him.

The whole act was laughable, but apparently it had the intended effect as Paloma opened and closed her mouth in chagrin (reminding Ginny of a fish), then narrowed her eyes as she glared up at the dark-skinned wizard standing so casually in front of her.

"So you treat me like – like _that_ – and then just expect me to come right back into your arms and forgive everything – after – _AFTER THAT_?!" she ineloquently screeched, making Blaise's straight back bend slightly backwards from the sheer force of volume.

Despite the rather comic picture they made, Ginny couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for the girl. Blaise _had_ treated her abhorrently – as he likely would any other girl. Mind, she still didn't like the girl and couldn't quite fathom how she hadn't prepared herself for such a treatment from the 'Number One Womanizer' in the school, but then again, she couldn't be blamed for having hoped otherwise and to actually be treated decently.

And he was just – _standing there_! Like he couldn't care less about the consequences of his actions!

_Ugh, he could be such a smooth cad sometimes!_ Ginny bristled from her shadowed spot, wanting very much to step up to them to give him a good bollocking.

But she refrained. It wouldn't exactly look good if she – of all people – tried to interfere.

_Better let them sort this out themselves_, she thought._ Just – don't be an ass for once, Blaise_, she added and sent the unaware Italian a pleading scowl. Yet, Blaise looked positively unperturbed by the Hufflepuff's frustrations directed towards him, making Ginny's alarm clocks silently go off.

"Gee, Podsworth, had I known you were this sensitive I would never have hooked up with you in the first place. I guess that's what you get when you go with Hufflepuffs. I was simply out for a good time, luv, hoping you'd let bygones be bygones." He tsked, "Guess I should have known better. Oh well."

_No. No no no NO! Dammit, Blaise!_, Ginny thought frantically as she watched the poor girl's face crumple slowly under his callous words.

_What's wrong with him?!_ she fumed and took in his indifferent face which seemed intended on not showing any outward sign of remorse.

_What had I even expected? That he had changed? Since when? Since __**I**__ have come to know him? _She gave an inner scoff. Had she really been so foolish to believe he had changed because of _her own _influence? Because of their – whatever it was between them?!

_Ginny, you must be off your rockers!_

But then … She _had_ actually hoped, hadn't she? She _had_ hoped and led herself to believe that he had somewhat changed, hadn't she?

"You – _YOU BASTARD_!" Paloma spat – jolting Ginny from her thoughts – and hiccupped, clutching herself as she ran from Blaise with no other words (luckily for Ginny in the opposite direction from where she hid), rounding a corner and disappeared.

Then a strange thing happened: Ginny was utterly baffled to witness how Blaise's posture changed dramatically, turning slack and weary, as if he had held his breath this entire time and now finally was able to breathe.

He leaned one hand against the wall where Paloma had stood only seconds ago and scrubbed his other hand across his long, chiseled face, sighing heavily.

Ginny stared, having never seen him act like this before – besides the incident in the Shrieking Shack though that was slightly different – and she doubted few, if any, ever had.

Believing himself to be alone in the corridor, this might be the reason he let his guard down, but she had an inkling it was far from a usual 'break-down', because the Blaise Zabini she once thought him to be would never risk giving himself away like this, no matter the situation. Not even in a presumably empty corridor.

She worried her lip and continued to watch him from her hidden spot. He still just stood there, unaware of her presence, leaning against the wall; the muscles in his body looking coiled and tense and yet exhausted at the same time.

She felt split. On the one hand, deep down, she wanted to reassure him and chase away his worries and on the other hand, she wanted to distance herself from him, not to sympathize with him – or feel _anything_!

Yet, she was too deep into it now. She had been from the day she was first paired with him to Quidditch introduction and then found herself willingly suggesting teaching him the Patronus charm.

Perhaps even from the day when they stumbled upon each other in the Prefects' Bathroom.

He could be a bastard, but he was not a _total_ bastard. Yes, what he had said to Paloma was awful, and he needed to rectify that, but Ginny could now tell he had been putting on an act. In truth, he had been frightened. Frightened out of his skin that he should be suspected and even prosecuted for the Dementor appearing and endangering the entire school. Frightened that he should end up where he started; his reputation and dignity and self-worth in the gutter. Forever a black mark in the world. He still wasn't patched up and just like everyone else, including herself, who had experienced the war up-close, she doubted he ever would. But at least he had come a long way to get away from all the misery and had tried to make good of his mistakes. Well, as good as he could manage.

He hadn't exactly become _a saint_.

Despite the gravity of the situation, she couldn't help but snicker slightly at the image of 'Saint Zabini', halo and all.

Unfortunately, the small sound was enough for Blaise to snap up his head and look in the direction where she was hiding.

_Darn! Spotted!_

"What –" he started, his eyes widening when Ginny begrudgingly stepped out the shadows by the corner.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Weasley?!" he snarled, glowering at her. "Eavesdropping and having a laugh at my expense, are we? How original of you! How much did you hear, may I ask?!"

She shuffled her feet but kept a safe distance. "Uhm, maybe everything..?"

"_Fuck_!" he hissed, making her flinch. "Great. Just great! Now you've finally gotten your leverage, it seems!"

"My– my leverage?" she stated, dumbfounded.

"YES DAMMIT!" he yelled and stepped forwards, trembling with uncharacteristic anger, and she stepped back in surprise. "Congratulations! You now know the true me! The _real_ Blaise Zabini! A pathetic bastard who picks on women and Muggle-borns to makes himself feel better and is a bloody hypocrite and a cowa–" He halted all of a sudden, his dark and so often cold, emotionless eyes now flickering like flaming obsidian – full of regret, anger and shame all at once.

Rarely had she seen him so animated – at all!

He withdrew then and it was truly a sight to behold; the way he pulled into himself within a second, easing his breath, schooling his angry features into a hard mask, eyes glazing over with arrogance, all in all collecting himself to the closest version of his usual self. A true Slytherin, indeed.

However, he couldn't still the effects from the momentary outburst; his chest heaving a bit quicker than normally, the muscles in his strong jaw ticking away and his large hands tightening into fists. She could practically hear the silent roaring of panicked 'fucks' resonating inside his head.

His voice in the next moment washed over her like a cold fever: "_So_. Do what you will with what you've seen here. I couldn't care less!" He spat the words scathingly, his eyes so cold – like burning ice.

Merlin! He really _hated_ her in this moment, Ginny realized belatedly, feeling her own breath struggle to remain even.

"I – I have no idea what you mean! Why should I want to use that as any kind of leverage?" she stammered in earnest, staring at him in confusion and hurt, but he didn't look one bit convinced that she would _never_ do such a thing. Actually, he just narrowed his eyes, crossing his long arms and loomed over her, looking _more_ suspicious.

_Damned, paranoid Slytherins_, she swore internally.

"I honestly don't, Blaise. And if you still don't believe me, then you're just going to have to trust me, okay?" She held up hands in peace, her eyes imploring him to understand that she wasn't one of his old Slytherin 'mates', up to their old, scheming tricks.

His eyes got a momentarily wary look about them as they roamed her face for any telltale signs of dishonesty but found none. His anger seemed to calm slightly, but he still looked unconvinced as he kept giving her the eye.

"Fine then," he bit out, then gave her a haughty once-over, worthy of the old days. "You wouldn't have it in you, anyway. 'Justice' and 'peace' are all you bloody Gryffindors fill your silly heads with!" he sneered exaggeratedly.

Ginny gave something between a wry chuckle and a scoff, now more certain that what was said was said in confidence.

"_Right_. Be careful now, Zabini. From what I've just witnessed – that 'first-rate'" she gestured disbelievingly to his form "Slytherin treatment you just gave that girl?..." She tsked pointedly, shaking her head. "I wonder why any of them even bother."

He scowled darkly down at her. "You know what? Fuck you, Weasley!" She gaped back at him. "I don't owe you any explanation, so don't come here on your high horse, playing almighty judge on me, alright!?"

"Judge? _Judge_!?" Ginny squeaked, infuriated, and gestured wildly with her arms, "Do you even hear yourself right now?! Merlin, you're so obtuse! You can't just go around treating and discarding people so carelessly like that, Blaise! There are consequences! I thought you knew that! I thought you had bloody well learned by now!"

The anger instantly faltered from his face at her words and she gave a dry, sad laugh, rubbing her forehead. "And here I thought you had actually gone and changed! Just a bit! How stupid could I be?! How bloody stupid could I be?" she said more to herself than to him and started turning away in exhausted resignation.

"I didn't –" he began in protest, but she whirled around to face him again.

"You're a _Slytherin_, Blaise," she snarled, "manipulating people is your hobby!"

For seconds, he just stared down at her, blinking in disbelief. Then the words seemed to hit a switch within as his features hardened in resentment.

Rolling his eyes, he threw up his hands and emitted a frustrated expletive. "You know what? I'm so sick and tired of you bloody self-righteous Gryffindors and your high-assed moralizing! That excuse has gotten so old, you know? Have any of you ever thought of _not_ letting yourselves get manipulated?! No, you naïve, thick-headed Gryffindors never really think that far, do you? No, you just judge and blame everyone else when you fall for _one_ dirty trick – _once_!" he pointed and standing so close to her that the warmth of his body and ragged breath hit her like a shock wave.

"Huh! Like you didn't just voice your typical Slytherin prejudice against Gryffindors, you hypocrite!" she scoffed, folding her arms and stared pointedly at him.

Blaise stared back at her like she was a madwoman.

The tension crackled between them, but neither of them budged.

_Bloody stubborn Gryffindors!,_ Blaise thought.

_Idiotic, pigheaded Slytherins!,_ Ginny thought.

…

_What were they fighting about again?_

He suddenly broke their intense stare-off, fuming, and started to pace the space in front of her. "Merlin, I can't believe this!"

"What? What can't you believe, huh, Blaise?" she spited him, incensed by his childish behavior and not really thinking what came out of her mouth, "That you have to face the consequences of your actions all of a sudden? Oh, poor you! I feel so sorry for you!"

He spun around in a fury, stalking towards her, but she held her ground.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Weasley?!" he roared, the sound resonating in her skull and the empty corridor. "In what world are you currently living, huh? Haven't you been keeping up on the latest news? I distinctly remember seeing you that morning in the Great Hall, so I guess you must be both blind and deaf and well, _stupid_, if you did not hear McGonagall's announcement or notice the whole bloody artillery of fucking _Aurors_!?"

Stunned, she wanted to say 'Yeah, Blaise, I know, and I was there with you when we were dragged in front of McGonagall and the Head Auror to be questioned, if you remember', but it seemed he had chosen to entirely repress or ignore that memory as he continued onwards with his tirade – and she could only stand there, looking on silently, baffled by his high-strung behavior.

"If you haven't noticed, I'm in the bloody mix of it all! I'm a fucking suspect, Weasley, and they don't even have to tell me! I just _know_! I saw their faces; I saw how they looked at me!"

"Blaise –"

Ignoring her plea, he whipped his frustrated, self-accusing stare towards her. "And you were there, at the Shack, you saw me! How would you be able to know I hadn't set the whole thing up in the first place?!"

"Blaise –"

"– After all, _I_ was the one who suggested we should check out the Shrieking Shack! _I_ lead the way! I could easily have summoned that Dementor only to get rid of it to act all heroic and shit in front of you!"

"_Blaise!_" She stepped forward and grabbed his tense arm and he stilled in confusion at her suddenly alarmed face.

Then he heard it too: A distinctive squeal sounding very much like Peeves and a simultaneous meow and a hiss from the far end of the corridor, echoing in one of dark hallways leading up to it. Then came the angry growl of Filch and another, suddenly much closer howling laugh of the ghost, a crash, and something bouncing off the walls.

Ginny and Blaise looked panicky at each other._ Those three_ were the last ones they wanted to run into right now, no matter their respective statuses as Head Girl and Prefect. This was not something they wanted the ever-gossiping Peeves and the ever-suspicious caretaker getting mixed into!

Unfortunately, it was already too risky to try and go back towards the crossing of stairs where the sound came from.

"This way," Ginny whispered hoarsely and instinctively pulled him in the opposite direction.

They quickly rounded a corner and continued down a long hallway leading away from the sounds, running around another corner on their left. Ginny had no idea where she was leading them, but as long as they got as far away from Peeves and Filch as possible, the better.

Going up several stairs that none of them had ventured before, passing utterly barren, unlit galleries, they heard another mocking squeal close by, then a very pissed off cat and its owner, and they realized belatedly that the damn ghost was taunting Filch who was now chasing him through the castle.

He must have done something to the cat or – _oh fuck!_ They were _right_ behind them!

Ginny suddenly realized they had come upon the entrance to the Astronomy Tower (though only Merlin knew how?!) and before she could react, Blaise had pulled them both inside and was scurrying up the stairs with her in tow.

They had just reached the top stairs when they heard the cackling ghost whizzing past the entrance below and continuing onwards and a little while after the heaving, swearing, old caretaker came shuffling after him.

Not risking anything, Blaise took her arm and led her silently out to the ledge before the balcony, where the Scottish weather once again had decided to 'bless' them with rain and a light, grey drizzle clouded the late afternoon scenery in front of them.

They stood there, panting for a while, listening intently to any sounds or footsteps nearby. No one came.

Silence fell heavily over them for what seemed like several minutes.

"You knew it would come to this as well, didn't you?"

He had said it so quietly and so bleakly; so different from the aggravated Blaise just moments ago that Ginny had looked up at him in surprise.

She knew he wasn't talking about getting caught by Filch.

He gave her a knowing, lost look and a wry upturn of his dark, perfectly shaped lips.

"Hey," he said, giving a small shrug, "it's not like I haven't prepared myself for this, you know? I always knew the past would some time or another come back and bite me in the arse." He looked down, the cynic half-smirk faltering from his lips as he shuffled his feet. "I just didn't think it would do it just yet."

Ginny felt a rush of sympathy for him, sending color to her cheeks and her eyes instinctively found her own feet as she leaned against the cold stones of the Tower.

"I know," she said, subdued. Worrying her lip, she continued, as if reassuring herself as well as him, "There was nothing we could do. We knew that. And I talked to McGonagall first; I think that helped."

When he didn't react, she panicked and babbled on, "It could have gone worse, you know? It could have attacked a First Year or some other unlucky kid and drained the life out of –"

"Stop! I don't want to hear it," he grounded out between his teeth, fear tightening his voice.

Ginny blinked. "I'm sorry. I wasn't – I didn't mean-" she halted and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes in frustration of the situation.

_What could she possibly say or do that would make all this good again?_

They stood for a while in strained silence, both trying to come up with some distracting topic of conversation, but at the moment they were far too affected and stubborn to be the first one to make peace.

"FUCK!" he suddenly exclaimed, jerking her from her musings, followed by a bony 'crack!' against the wall beside him where he apparently had chosen to take out his frustration.

As he once again slowly turned, body tense, he was slightly more composed, but his eyes blazed with silent shame and anger and she felt obliged to look away in shame herself at having been witness to his private moment.

Deliberately choosing not to comment on his reaction, she just continued to lean against the wall beside him and said nothing, letting him cool down in the light rain against their faces.

After a while, she shot a glance at his now subdued and quiet disposition beside her, wondering what was going through his mind. Unwittingly, she let her gaze travel down his tall, lean frame which was now uncharacteristically slumped against the wall but nonetheless still a head or two taller than her.

She noticed his right hand was rather bruised from his earlier 'wall knock-out'.

_Such a stupid thing to do._

"Your hand," she all but whispered, but he heard it, looking down at her and followed her gaze to his hand.

"Oh. Right," he merely muttered, unaffected, hissing slightly when he accidentally rubbed it.

"Don't do that! You may have injured it badly!"

He gave a meek shake with his head. "Nah, it's not so bad. I'll live." He laughed humorlessly. "I do that all the time. When I'm alone. Hit something." He paused. "It's nothing."

Her brows knitted together in concern. "Why?"

"Because –," he faltered and then seemed to regret speaking at all, "Just because."

"Please. Blaise," she implored softly and put a hand on his arm.

He looked down and stared at where her hand once again lay, both of them feeling like it burned a hole in his shirt at the contact. He stared so long and so intensely – like it was the most fascinating thing in the whole world – that she instinctively squeezed her grip, becoming desperately aware of how firm and warm his arm was.

She gulped, momentarily closing her eyes.

"Because it makes the pain go away, doesn't it?" she tried.

He swiveled his black eyes back to hers and they seemed bottomless; raw and trembling in a way that she had only witnessed twice before with him. Each time a slightly different version of this unguarded Blaise.

"Y-yes," he rasped in half-surprise, his rough voice so close she had to close her eyes again and nodded, naturally gravitating closer to him in the dark. When she opened them again, she found his questioning, exposed eyes still roaming her face – as if he really saw her – for the first time.

She felt her face grow hot under such intense, close scrutiny. His face, too, seemed to transform his usually arrogantly handsome and stony features into something open and honest and … innocent. She was transfixed by it.

"How- how do you know?" he asked in a strained whisper.

She gulped and hesitated, "Because I – because I do it too."

She could have elaborated and told him of the times right after Fred's death and the war where she had allowed herself to withdraw from friends and family, their concerned, grieving faces, dry hands in hers, wet eyes buried in her neck, arms squeezing the life out of her; never giving her room to breathe. The air was too stifling anyway. When she had finally come out of her mother's tight grasp, skirting her father's and brothers' haggard faces, away from Harry and Hermione's sympathetic looks, feeling ill at witnessing George's near decay into nothing – away from all of it! – only _then_, when alone and isolated, she allowed herself to yell and scream and smash; everything within her sight – everything breakable – everything worthless – which was _everything _compared to what they had all lost! _Whom she_ had lost!

Ginny felt her eyes water, throat thickening, and she dared to tilt her face up towards the dark, young man – her supposed _nemesis_ and former _Slytherin!_ – who now stood so close, somewhere in-between having grasped her hand in his large, tapered ones, letting her lean some of her suddenly all too burdened weight on him. And he looked at her with such unchecked, uncharacteristic emotion – somewhere sharing an understanding but not like anything she had received before. And she realized she didn't mind for once. None of it. Not at all!

She was about to open her mouth, to say something, when a shrill, self-satisfied meow behind them drew them apart, startled by the sound as they both looked around to see Mrs Norris regarding them haughtily.

"_Fuck_," Blaise swore and stepped out of Ginny's grasp, making her instantly miss his body heat. She blamed the cold drizzle.

"How the fuck did that thing find us up here?!"

"Must have sensed us when Filch and Peeves passed the Tower entrance," she suggested, sending the cat a wry face as they both skirted around its annoying presence and glaring, yellow eyes trailing them. "Filch will probably be here soon."

"Damned, old cat," Blaise grumbled, loud enough for the cat to give an offended mewl, alerting its owner once again.

Deciding to make themselves scarce as quickly as possible, they darted down the winding stairs and exited the Tower, returning the way they came from and scurried down the hallways.

At last, they reached the third-floor corridor from where they had first bolted, luckily without any grumpy caretaker in sight.

A tense silence now hung between them.

"_So_," Blaise droned without looking at her, his usually cool posture seemingly conflicted whether to stay or to go.

"_So_," Ginny repeated, her heart still beating wildly from the incident that had occurred between them just moments ago.

After a beat he spoke again, voice overly nonchalant, "I guess I'll be seeing you at the party tonight?"

She darted a look at him, unsure how to respond. "I guess so."

Another moment of silence.

Blaise sighed as if bored but somehow determined to make awkward small talk.

"Glad we avoided getting caught. I'd rather not have spent my evening being questioned by Filch."

"Me neither," she replied flatly.

_Merlin, could this get any more awkward?_

He gave up then. "Well, then. See you."

"See you," she muttered.

So different from yesterday, Ginny thought as she watched the lean wizard turn and walk away. And yet, the same. Every time ending in a circle she didn't seem to be able to break away from.

Neither did he, it seemed.


	17. The party of the year

"Ugh, this won't do!" Ginny grumbled, looking herself over in the mirror for the umpteenth time.

All her dresses were at least two years old and though she could still fit them (she hadn't exactly _gained_ weight during the war), she felt she had outgrown them, both in style and comfort. They just weren't.. _her_ anymore.

She was sorely tempted to put on the Muggle attire she had acquired in a shop in London when going there during the Holidays with Hermione which consisted of a black, sleeveless silk top, slim, dark-blue jeans and a pair of low, black, chunky-heeled boots. 'The highest fashion', Hermione had told her. Ginny had just shrugged and said 'OK'. How would she know what Muggle fashion currently dictated? She had given up looking up the fashion section in Witch Weekly two years ago.

But she guessed it _had_ looked nice enough on her. And she _really_ needed some new clothes. She had only gone on that shopping spree with Hermione out of desperation and need of distraction.

During only a couple of months she felt she had outgrown _everything_ in her closet. Most of all, she just wanted to lit a big bonfire in the garden of the Burrow and throw every damn cute little, girly, knitted, multi-colored article on it and watch it turn to ashes and disappear into the air. As if everything bad and gruesome she had witnessed and experienced while bearing it also disappeared. All the good memories they once held tainted by the bad ones. No need to carry around such memories. She had been a little, silly, innocent girl back then anyway. She was no silly, little, innocent girl anymore.

A silent choke tore up her throat and she was met by her own teary reflection in the mirror.

_Way to go, Ginny. Now you've _really_ set in the party mood. And all by yourself._

She had deliberately refrained from calling on any of the other girls to help her pick out an outfit or join in for a pre-party at their dorms as they used to.

_Huh. 'As they used to'._

What they used to do seemed light years away and yet it was only two years ago they had all been sitting here, right where she was standing, invited by the _then_ Head Girl of Gryffindor whom Hermione knew through her Prefect duties. They were going to one of the big House parties thrown by Gryffindor and had decided to throw their own little pre-party to 'warm up' together with some of the other girls from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Despite they had still been on the cusp to war, it was one of the last times Ginny had felt truly carefree and happy at school.

Now, the memory seemed like a ghost conjured from her imagination and swept out through the open window to the cold night sky. The stars twinkled back, either mocking her for her sentimentality; for reminiscing too much on past innocence, or they were consoling her; thanking her for giving them her little memory. That they would take good care of it.

She sighed and looked down the tatty, old dress she was currently wearing and angrily grabbed the hem, ripping it over her head to throw it in the growing pile of clothes at her feet. Rummaging through her closet she finally found the outfit she had bought in London. Well, it would do. She didn't really care what the others thought or wore in comparison.

Putting it on, she added some of her necklaces, a bracelet and a so-called 'choker', made of a black velvet ribbon that Hermione had given her in another instance of her 'It's the highest fashion'-speeches.

She chuckled for herself at the memory of _Hermione_ of all people telling her what the newest fashion was as she swept up her long hair into a high, loose bun with some of it framing her face. The finished result was satisfactory and for once, as of late, she didn't feel out of place in her clothes. However, not wanting to give anymore thought to it nor suddenly having second thoughts, she grabbed her wand, turned off the lights and exited her room.

She did not have to venture far from her quarters before she ran into the first, several groups of dolled up, merry students headed towards the House dorm of _Politics & Law_. Even the looming threat of a rogue Dementor couldn't rattle the new students of Hogwarts that easily, it seemed. Clearly, this party _was_ the party that was going to set in the new year. With a blast!

Closer to the entrance, she narrowly spotted some underage students who had snuck in between the others but failed trying to blend in. Making quick work of catching them, she made it clear to them how severe the consequences would be if she found them here again. Usually, she didn't have to say things twice since she had built up a nice rep throughout the semester of just how serious she was about her position as Head Girl, but apparently her 'rep' had been overhauled by the sheer hype and attraction of the party. Those small, shining, pleading eyes darting towards the festivities and music at the other end of the hallway behind them certainly told her she would have to say things _several_ times before it registered.

"Listen, I know you want to go to the party, but you are simply not old enough to _this kind_ of party, you see?" she prompted, balancing her voice in equal measure of sensible authority and sympathy to the group of Second Years she had caught. "Maybe in a year or two and then you'll be able to have your own parties as well."

They nodded slowly, their crestfallen faces not exactly lifting her mood for going to the party herself.

"What's this? The Spanish Inquisition? My my, Weasley, spread the joy a little wider while you're at it, why don't you?"

The mocking, languid voice behind her was unmistakable and for a second she thought she might break her own jaw from gnashing her teeth so hard together at the sound of it.

"_Zabini_." The acid in her voice could have melted a hole in the floor and swallowed him whole. Oh, she wished! She _really_ didn't have the energy to deal with him, of all people, right now.

Facing momentarily away from the bewildered Second Years, she crossed her arms and turned towards the dark-skinned Italian who was standing as lean, tall and superior as ever and pinning her down with an irritatingly smug expression painted on his sculpted features. He was clad in some sort of aristocratic, dark evening robes, presumably worth the yearly salary of the entire Hogwarts staff put together, and on his left arm was some snooty-looking, leggy blonde whom Ginny vaguely recalled having seen around him before, probably a former Slytherin from his year.

_Well, does he work quickly!_

Gone was this afternoon's frustrated and edgy countenance she had witnessed up-close, as he gave the assembly a towering, haughty once-over.

"I see you've collected your stray dogs? How tedious. But shouldn't you at least try and lift their spirits? A drink or two couldn't possibly hurt. They'd have to learn it from _somewhere_ and, why, we all know _you_ would be the perfect teacher," he drawled in thinly veiled disgust. However, his full lips quirked ever so slightly and she spotted an amused twinkle in his dark eyes, goading her on. To anyone else it probably just looked like a typical, icy stand-off between two old House enemies.

She shot him a raised eyebrow. _Oh, so it's with that attitude on now, is it, Blaise?_ Well, she hadn't exactly expected hugs and flowers. It wasn't like they had something going on or anything (_that _was way too confusing to think about now); they could hardly even call themselves 'buddies'.

She gave an internal scoff at the positively absurd sound of that, turning her attention back on his smug features.

"How original, Zabini. If anyone would applaud underage-drinking, one could only expect it to come from a former _Slytherin_," she smiled overly sweetly, keeping up with his goading which she figured – based on the answering glint in his eyes – was well-received.

"_Hmph_! As if you _Gryffindors_ don't get unseemly sloshed and knocked out all the time at our parties! So boorish," the girl at Blaise's arm interfered snootily, oblivious to the silent transaction between the two and tossed her long, blonde hair over one shoulder. "That uncouth brother of yours who always ran around with Scarhead? Ugh, he was the worst!"

Blaise said nothing but a muscle in his strong jaw ticked in obvious annoyance at his date's interruption.

"_Right_," Ginny jeered with an arched eyebrow towards the girl, "whoever you are. I don't think you're in a position to say anything about my brother, so please stay out of this."

The blonde gaped. "Ugh! Did you hear that, Blaise?! How rude!"

Blaise, however, seemed more bored than bothered with the entire display – and definitely with his date whom he didn't deign a second glance.

"Anywho," he continued smoothly, unperturbed by the murderous looks his date kept sending Ginny, "you need a certain Prefect's help with this particular lot?" He bent his long frame slightly forward and eyed the unmoving crowd of underage students behind her who had been watching them in curious awe. Blaise's crowding frame however seemed to startle them out of their daze and they backed ever so slightly away from him.

Ginny held back a snicker, looked at them and shrugged. "Nah. I think they got the message."

Straightening up again, a subtle, wolfish grin exposed a set of perfect, white teeth, and his gaze swept back to her, sending a warm, chafing jolt to her stomach. He emitted a short, low chuckle. "Suit yourself, _Weaslette,_" rolling the nickname predatorily over his tongue, his obsidian eyes transfixed on hers, "but if you will be in need of help to sort out this particular _lot_ then don't hesitate to call … somebody else."

His voice was laced with a double meaning, but his date clearly missed it and snickered exaggeratedly beside him, tugging at his stoic frame. He didn't budge however, hardly seemed to register her existence as his dark orbs bored into Ginny's.

She stood for a moment, flummoxed by his words and this new intensity of his stare, when another voice broke through and shattered the spell.

"What'z thiz, Blaisy-boy? A group hug? Can 'ah join?"

Theo Nott had so 'gallantly' chosen to join the party, already drunk as a skunk, his arms slung around two giggling teens on either side of him as he blearily grinned at everyone in the circle. Unsteadily he held up a giant bottle of expensive champagne, waggling his eyebrows and gestured to the females – even those among the Second Years who giggled at his theatrics. "How'z it hangin', girlies? Want zome?"

"Cut it out, Theo."

"That's enough, Nott!"

Blaise and Ginny briefly glanced at each other for having spoken at the same time, but their attention was once again drawn to Theo's reeling form.

"I'll say!" he exclaimed, drunkenly affronted and swinging the heavy bottle in his flailing arm; the boy on his right narrowly escaping it. "Can't a man have zome fun? Huh? What'z the crime, folks? Iz it because 'am a Deathz eater, huh, iz it? _Hm_?!" he slurred and leaned forward. The teens who were holding most of his weight were now straining under him. "It iz, isn't it?! It'z that Dementor appearing and now –"

"Pull yourself together, Theo," Blaise was quick to intervene, distracting any onlooker with an air of overbearing exasperation, though his tight voice belied a hint of alarm. "You're drunker than a Cornish Pixie who's fallen into the spiked punch!"

"Am not!" Theo childishly retorted and pouted, swaying dangerously between the teens as he tried but failed to point directly at Blaise, likely seeing double.

Blaise sighed. "Get him inside and put him down a place where he can't hurt himself. Or others, for that matter," he said, apparently not unfamiliar with his friend's behavior, and gestured towards the entrance to the dorm. "I'll make sure he gets to bed safely."

The teens, not ones to question the clear authority Blaise held, nodded (rather gratefully) and pulled a now grumpy and protesting Theo away from the group, navigating his stumbling body in between the bustling crowd of students in the hallway.

"Shall we go?" the Italian's terse voice sounded next.

Before Ginny knew it, Blaise had passed her, dragging his baffled, leggy date behind him, a more strained look marring his features.

For a second she just stood there, contemplating his strange behavior, then a small finger poked her shoulder.

"Can't we come, too? We promise to behave," one of the Second Years tried with a last, desperate plea.

Ginny once again took in their crowd of eager faces and sighed.

"_No_." Their faces fell. "I _am_ sorry, but I'm not the Head Girl if I do not implement the school rules – and the rules are _strict_ concerning underage drinking. Now go along, back to your dorms," she cajoled, hands on their slim shoulders pushing them gently, but firmly in the opposite direction of the party.

With one last, despondent look over their shoulders, the sulky children shuffled along down the corridor and eventually rounded the corner.

Making sure they had all gone, Ginny sighed once more. Being a strict rule follower didn't exactly sit well with her, but she wouldn't want to begin slacking on the rules, knowing how well they could escalate if she just once gave enough leeway. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to get into the soup with McGonagall.

Somewhat reluctantly, she started following the herd of cheerful students up the stairs of the former Ravenclaw Tower that led to the current House dorm, having already lost sight of Blaise and the others. Once jostled inside the overly packed room she admittedly had to concede to the whole hype factor; this House certainly understood how to throw a proper party:

A magnificent display of various blue and bronze serpentines covered the entire ceiling, with little stars and birds of silver paper and glowing glass globes charmed to stay afloat and fly in-between them, throwing the spacious room in a cozy lighting. In one of the corners, the House band played a loud, electric beat, resonating well throughout the castle, in front of an excited, dancing crowd, while a circular bar had been placed in the middle of the room and several colorful drinks and delicious-looking snacks were handed over the counter.

By the looks of it all, you certainly wouldn't think a threat of a Dementor on the loose had been announced just yesterday morning!

"Ginny! There you are! Over here!" a familiar, female voice shouted across the noise and she barely managed to spot a raised hand waving towards her from across the crowded room. Parvati's excited face emerged for a split second and Ginny gave a small sigh, smiling and waving back before beginning to push past people in the direction of her.

Finally reaching a very fashionably styled Parvati and the group she was hanging out with, the twin's hand eagerly shot out to lightly grab Ginny's arm.

"I'm so glad you came! Wow, you look great! Is that new? Muggle fashion? _Risqué_. Oh, but I've heard of this amazing shop in central Muggle London that's just a _must_ _see_! Here, have some of the vodka we smuggled in! And who's got the pumpkin juice, guys? Come on, hurry, before somebody sees! Ah, here you go!"

The little group around her giggled conspiratorially and before Ginny knew it she had been handed a large cup which was then immediately filled with the promised beverage. She stared down into the slightly disconcerting mixture for a moment.

"Merlin, isn't this great!" Parvati babbled on, eyes shining as she gestured to their surroundings before eagerly settling back on Ginny. "No way you'd have wanted to miss _this_ for the world, right?!"

Ginny gave an indulgent smile, taking a sip from her drink (which had an acquired taste, indeed), and nodded to her surroundings. "Well, they certainly seem to have put a lot of effort into this, I'll give them that."

"_Effort_?!" Parvati laughed, practically bouncing with giddiness, "This IS already the party of the year! Seriously. _No one_ can top this! _Everybody_ is here – even the teachers and the Aurors – look!"

She gestured through the crowd towards one of corners where indeed some of the staff members – mostly of the younger generation – stood calmly in a group, drinks in their hands, alternating between observing the crowd and chatting to each other or some of the students. They managed to somehow ooze the jovial authority and professionalism that younger, idealistic and still rather untried teachers possessed. _And_ already spurning quite the doe-eyed fans among the students who were clearly chatting them up. It stayed one-sided, of course.

Meanwhile, the few Aurors present stayed in the shadows, looming in the background while reconnoitering; their uniformed attires, serious faces and battle-ready attitudes marring some of the festive mood of the room. However, few students seemed to pay any particular attention to them, probably distracted by the music and the many drinks handed across the bar.

"The new teacher of History of Magic is _such_ a stunner!" a younger, strawberry-blonde girl in Parvati's group sighed out loud, her eyes transfixed on the young, swarthy Professor Altair Zelenko in the corner who presently was sporting a blinding smile in front of his colleagues.

"Oh Merlin, _yes_!" Parvati crooned in a breathy response. "We've been standing here drooling like fools for about half an hour now, and I tell you, Ginny, History of Magic is _never_ going to be boring again as long as _he_ is at the helm. Total fox!"

Ginny chuckled at their besotted behavior, taking another sip from her drink while eyeing the Professor again. She had to admit that he had been gifted with several handsome features, though she found them rather conventional. She hardly remembered his classes (and not just because she hadn't attended most of them lately), so she could only conclude his personality had to be rather bland as well. Nice, but bland.

No, he wasn't the type she would be drooling over. Maybe once, long before the war – which seemed a lifetime ago – she could have been like these girls and gushed over a hot boy or young teacher. Back when she could allow herself to be relatively carefree, her heart and mind unburdened by trouble, untouched by darkness.

And now?

Yes, what now?

Did the close encounter with evil and the loss of innocence make her want a bit of darkness now? She could hardly let herself admit it. Yet, had her eyes not shifted; drawn to something else as of late? Not merely out of distraction or boredom or simply a change in taste. It was too superficial to explain why she had all of sudden and consistently collided with a specific individual in the crowd. One who had actually tasted the darkness; youth and innocence tangled up with its euphoric power before fear and understanding set in, yet, by then, had been pulled in too deep, deeper than her or any of her friends; now frantically, silently trying to escape from his past.

She was drawn on some inexplicable level she had yet to fully comprehend. As if they were already instinctively connected because of their shared experience with said darkness. And it had become all too mixed up with the rattling, sensory memory of his mere physical presence these last couple of months; angrily pushing her against a wall, looming over her and surprising her with such fierce, unchecked emotion; the stirring, knowing look given across the Quidditch field, seared into her soul; his dark brow set in pensive folds in the sparse lights of the tunnels to the Shrieking Shack, his raw voice guiding her to a greater insight of him and herself, revealing emotional scars she'd never seen before; him bodily shielding her prone form on the ground from the Dementor; his vulnerable state of shock in the aftermath; his length pressed against hers in the Prefects' Bathroom, lips hungrily meeting her own and gone before any of them had time to process it. The presence of him in her life suddenly becoming very tangible and real.

_Too_ real.

"Ginny?"

Ginny snapped out of her heady thoughts and stared back at her olive-skinned friend who looked a little too knowingly at her, eyes gleaming.

"Why do I have the feeling that you weren't thinking about the young, hot Professor right now like the rest of us?"

"I'm – um – I wasn't thinking about _anyone_," Ginny said in a flurry, damning the tell-tale heat that flew to her cheeks which only made Parvarti's eyes narrow.

"_Right_. And I know you to be a better liar than that, Ginny Weasley." Stepping closer, cutting off the curious glances from her friends behind her, she whispered with curious excitement, "Who is he?"

"Er, I seriously don't know what you're on about, Parvati," Ginny chuckled nervously, backing away and looking desperately around for a distraction of some kind.

"Come on, Gin; you can tell me."

Parvati, having first caught the scent of potential gossip, was renowned for her persistence in getting a good scoop. In the back of her head Ginny wondered if the Patil twin one day would come to surpass Rita Skeeter herself in relaying the latest, blatant gossip for the _Prophet_. It wouldn't come as a surprise if she did. She looked positively hungry at the moment and the last thing Ginny wanted was this exact situation – _escalating_.

"It's really nothing, Parvati. Trust me," she emphasized, then looked away, trying to appear particularly wistful though secretly ashamed of her blatant lie, "I was just thinking about a special memory I had of Harry and me… you know?"

Parvati still looked suspicious.

Looking down to her cup, somewhat surprised that it was already empty, Ginny jumped at the chance.

"I'm thirsty. Aren't you thirsty? Let's go get some more drinks," she quickly intercepted before her friend could get to pry anymore, grabbing Parvati's arm and pulling her through the crowd towards the bar.

Reaching it, a strapping, young bartender leered at them, leaning over the counter.

"What'll it be, ladies?"

"What've you got?" Ginny replied impatiently, eyes roaming the rows of various bottles behind him. She needed something hard-hitting and preferably fast!

He smirked. "Well," he drawled, "I've got everything your hearts desire: I've got Ogden's Old and Blishen's Firewhiskey, Dragon Barrel Brandy, red currant rum, Elf-made wine, Bungbarrel Spiced Mead, beer and ale, champagne and whatever fruity combination you wish to combine in a cocktail," he reeled off, smiling triumphantly at his own sale's speech.

"I'll have a fruity one, I think," Parvati piped up from behind her. "Perhaps one of those bubbly, red ones I've seen around? With the little butterfly wings, you know?" she mused, looking around as if hoping to point one out in the crowd.

"Certainly! Coming right up!" the bartender responded with a wink (Ginny practically snorted at that), already swinging his wand to pull forth the ingredients while his gaze came back to Ginny. "And for the other beautiful, young lady here?"

_Hmph, 'young lady'! As if we aren't practically the same age,_ Ginny grumbled, having no patience for his contrived flirting.

"I'll have a Firewhiskey. On the rocks," she stated flatly. "Thanks."

His eyebrows, in turn, rose to impressive heights.

She harrumphed wryly. "Well, what can I say? I have an acquired taste, but right now I need something a little stronger than a bubbly butterfly drink – no offense, Parvati."

"None taken," Parvati smiled unfettered, eagerly accepting her own drink (which looked more like a butterfly _nest_) and began sipping at it.

Eyeing the still somewhat amazed bartender, Ginny raised an eyebrow, "Well?"

"Oh! Yes," he stumbled out his daze, "one Firewhiskey on the rocks coming up!"

"Firewhiskey, huh? Isn't it a bit early for that?" a deep, male voice chuckled and both girls whipped around in surprise to find none other than the topic of their earlier conversation standing right behind them with a handsome smile plastered on his face. His muddy-green eyes twinkled particularly magnificently in the light from the floating glass globes as they settled on a dumbfounded Ginny.

"Why, Professor Zelenko!" Parvati exclaimed in girly adoration, briefly distracting him from Ginny's stupefied stature. "I was just – I mean, _we_ were just talking about what wonderful classes you teach! Weren't we, Ginny?" She elbowed Ginny in the ribs (who in turn gave a pained grunt) before prattling on, "I never thought History of Magic could be _this_ interesting – but what do you know! There seems to be no ends to the surprises this year, does there?!" She burst into a slightly exaggerated, pearly laughter and Ginny eyed her with incredulity.

The Professor continued to smile, unperturbed by Parvati's theatrics.

"I'm glad you enjoy them, Miss Patil," he stated levelly, before his eyes settled back on Ginny with interest, "but I'm a bit surprised that – Miss Weasley, is it? – enjoys them so much as well, since I've hardly ever seen her in my classes." He kept his tone light and unimposing, but there was a slight, challenging sparkle in his eyes as he continued to study her.

_Blast! _She gulped.

"Well, I –" she chuckled nervously, "I don't seem to have a lot of time this year for _all_ of my classes, Professor – um, with my Head Girl duties and Quidditch and all that."

_Very articulate, Ginny,_ she cringed._ An excellent and truly pathetic excuse._ Merlin, how she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole right now!

The young Professor subtly scrutinized her face as she gnawed on her lip.

"Too bad," he finally said, seemingly in earnest, crossing his arms in a relaxed stance. "I have heard a lot of great things about you in the short time I've been here. I must say, I was very much looking forward to have you in my class and see for myself. But I realize that you are perhaps more of a – well, that you are less _academically_ inclined than some of your peers. More of the _sportsmanlike_ type. Am I right?", he smiled.

She stared befuddled back at him. For some reason, she couldn't quite figure out his tone of intent as it was said in all good humour on the surface, but had an underlying patronizing edge to it.

"Oh, you should totally see her in the air, Professor!" Parvati interjected with shrill enthusiasm. "She's the best Quidditch player we have! On the entire school!"

"_Parvati_," Ginny started in slight embarrassment, but the Professor cut in.

"Oh, I believe you," he smiled, his gaze sparking as he once more gazed at Ginny. "Actually, I have been so fortunate to witness so myself during the matches I've attended. You're quite the Captain, I've noticed."

She couldn't help but squirm under all the sudden praise. "Well, the team effort is really what makes the games worth the watch," she stressed rather feebly.

Zelenko tsked. "Ah, I wouldn't have thought you the type to use false modesty, Miss Weasley. Come now! You're surely the reason _why_ the team is so effective, no?"

Irritation welled up in her at his overly personal address and she inhaled deeply, sending him a forced smile.

"Well, _Professor_. I guess I'm fortunate to have an excellent team that is eager, hard-working, competent and apt to any humble guidance I can prescribe, given I've only played on amateur level for a couple of years now. In the end, I'm merely doing my job, but that I happen to have a personal and professional interest in the sport _does_ enhance my own effort. So, yes, in that regard, I guess I can take some credit and pride in the end results, but Quidditch is and always will be a team effort."

_There! Take that, Mr. Smarty-pants Professor!, _she gloated inwardly._ Worthy of a bloody essay!_

The look on his face was indeed one of astonishment, but it soon sparked an admiring note as he continued to study her with understated rapture and suddenly she feared she had done herself a disservice by trying to outwit him. He _definitely_ didn't seem to mind that – at all!

_Great,_ she thought wryly, _what mess have you gotten yourself into now, Ginny?_

"Indeed," he drawled, "I can see you are very keen about your sportsmanship. And don't take this the wrong way; there's nothing inherently wrong about striving for such a career. But," his voice took on a subtly overbearing tone, despite not breaking his casual, smiling countenance, "wouldn't it do you good to prioritize your _other_ studies as well – if not more? Quidditch is hardly going to be your entire life, after all, since it's such a short-lived career from what I understand. No matter the level of fame – which I'm sure you're likely to achieve – you'll also need to have something to fall back on. Something dependable. Don't you agree?"

Ginny all but gaped at him. Why didn't this feel like a mere student-teacher-small talk any longer? Besides, he was little more than a stranger to her; how did he presume to know her all of a sudden? To lecture her this way? Really, it felt as if he had managed to reverse her usual self-confidence by jumping her all of a sudden here at the party, using the surprise to his advantage, to somehow undermine her with a double-edged compliment.

She wasn't usually distrustful of other people, but there was something _off_ with this guy. He was too smooth.

Averting her gaze, and for the second or third time this evening she wished for some distraction to fall into her lap. Luckily, it momentarily appeared in the shape of her long-awaited drink being handed over the counter to her left by the frisky bartender.

Relieved, she grabbed it and wolfed down its contents, wincing at the burning feel in her throat and her body's response to the almost immediate, sedating effects of the strong liquor.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed it was Parvati's turn to stare incredulously at her and grumbled inwardly when she saw the Professor hadn't taken the hint and backed away. He was still standing there with that irritating smirk plastered on his face, an awkward silence settling between them.

She had just had about enough of this guy! She had never asked for his attention, least of all his more than unnecessary lecturing she felt there was no correct response to.

And of all the girls fawning over him and fighting for his attention in this overstuffed room, he had to pick out the _least_ interested one!

"Another one, please," she snapped at the bartender who somewhat impressed but quickly filled her glass again. She drained it – all the while scowling at the Professor above the rim of the glass – before slamming it down on the counter, her head reeling from the effects of the alcohol and her gnawing irritation with present company. (Well, except Parvati, perhaps).

It was all that it took for her to wish for another face in her field of vision to distract her from the Professor's.

Distracted, her eyes skirted over the top of the Professor's head; roaming the crowd for that familiar dark head and set of wide, elegant shoulders squared against the world.

But there were too many people crowding her vision to set anyone particular apart and the ceiling decorations seemed to fill up any spare space above them. The noise, the music and the chatter disturbed her senses, a loss of direction setting in as she tried to scan her surroundings for him, her heart palpitating. He would be in the centre of attention and yet beside it. Giving no call to suspicion and maintaining his usual role, knowing he was not easily overlooked, but imposing a sense of respect for privacy, no matter the relaxed circumstances. Somehow she knew he would do that. Maybe because she did it as well.

Her stomach dropped. He was nowhere to be seen. An ugly, unwanted voice appeared in her head: _Probably off shagging his leggy, blonde companion somewhere_.

Ugh, here we go again.

Suddenly, the alcohol took a turn for the worse, no longer the warm, fuzzy feeling just moments ago and she paled.

"Will you excuse me for a moment," she spoke hoarsely and pushed away from the bar, leaving the company puzzled behind (she felt momentarily guilty for ditching Parvati, but she hoped she would understand), to stagger through the crowd towards the exit and out into the hallway leading to the stairs.

Yet, not even here could she have some privacy; it was still peopled with sniggering, stumbling students out for a snog; the air too thick and warm, constricting around her throat and making the nausea set in twofold.

As swiftly as her foggy brain and slightly wobbly legs could manage, she passed the distracted teens along the walls and hurried down the stairs of the tower, almost falling over a couple of students who apparently had picked out the stairs as a good snogging spot, before finally reaching the lower level corridor connected to the tower.

She walked a couple of steps into the nearest hallway on the left which was quite dark and abandoned and – luckily – infused with the cool, night air from some of the opened, high-ceiled windows facing the starlit sky.

Finally in peace, she bent over, hands on knees and letting herself breathe for a moment to get the nausea and dizziness to settle down.

Since when had she taken so badly to a bit of Firewhiskey?!

OK, _and_ some vodka, she admitted begrudgingly, grabbing the side of her throbbing head, already regretting coming to this party, at all.

"You're feeling well, Miss Weasley?" a deep, uniform voice drawled from further down the darkened hallway, making her straighten with a small yelp.

_Gee, not a moment's peace!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, this 'party' isn't over yet, folks ;)
> 
> Btw, the inspiration for Ginny's garb I got from one of the outfits that Rose Leslie (whom I very much like to imagine a grown-up Ginny Weasley would look like) wears in the movie "The Last Witch Hunter":  



	18. Positively Slytherin!

Whirling around Ginny saw none other than the Head Auror himself stepping out of the shadows; his cold, hawk-like gaze fixed on her.

What was _he_ doing here? Surely, he could just have some of his lackeys surveying the hallways instead of lurking about himself?

She frowned. She _really_ didn't like this guy.

"Sir," Ginny greeted him cautiously, eyeing his movements as he slowly advanced her, practically circled her, hands behind his back.

"How are you this evening?" he asked calmly, _too_ calmly, while subtly inspecting her as if still trying to find some suspicious signs about her behavior besides being slightly worse for wear.

Was this a 'thing' among Aurors or was it just _him_ – being overtly creepy?

"I am well, all considerate. Thank you… _Sir_," she replied warily, eyes narrowing at his consistent perusal.

Standing still, he took in her distrustful expression but continued as if nothing was amiss, "I had hoped to find you in the company of Mr. Zabini this evening. You haven't by any chance seen him, have you?"

Heat rising to her cheeks, she blurted out, "Why?", before realizing her mistake and cringed, blaming the alcohol's effects on her. Clearing her throat, she jutted out her chin, "May I ask why you think that _I_ should know about Zabini's whereabouts, in particular?" she pointedly rephrased, adding another terse "_Sir_."

His stone-faced expression revealed nothing but kept on surveying her person. "I merely wondered where he presently kept himself, given the threat hanging around the school," he replied as cryptically as ever.

Pressing her lips together, Ginny felt indignation well up inside her at the idiotic stubbornness of this guy and his entirely unfounded smear campaign against Blaise. Hadn't he got it into his big, fat head yet that Blaise had absolutely nothing to do with that Dementor?!

And he clearly thought she was somehow colluding with him or covering up for him.

What exactly was his problem? He didn't actually _think_ Blaise could have any lingering loyalties to his past ties, did he?

Hands on hips, she stared hotly back at the Auror. "Well, first of all, _yes_, I _have_ seen him; we happened to run into each other just before we went to the party upstairs. _Separately_. I haven't seen him since. And secondly, I don't think you should 'trouble' yourself about the safety of Zabini, _Sir_. As far as I know he can take care of himself."

"Ah, yes, _you_ would know that, wouldn't you?"

What presumably should have come off as a casual smirk along with his all too smooth voice came across as more of a predatory 'Gotcha!'-look on his austere, hard-lined face.

Seriously, did this guy have no chill at all?

"_Yes_," she retorted flatly, as if speaking to a slow-witted person, "Since I was with him when he single-handedly fought off the Dementor. Remember?"

"Exactly."

She blinked. _Wow_. This guy was certainly persistent, she'd give him that. What exactly did he want from her? A big confession of some sorts?

_Bloody likely!_

"I'm not sure what you want me to say, Sir," she stated with an innocent shrug. "I've told you all I know in the Headmistress's office. And I'm sure Zabini would say the same to you if he was here. All we want is for the Dementor to be caught, if I'm not wrong? I can't see what neither Blaise nor I can do to help the search any further, other than doing as instructed as Prefect and Head Girl, respectively. The job is evidently up to you Aurors to capture dangerous, magical creatures, isn't that so?" She smiled placidly up at him, secretly amazed at her own ability to form any kind of cohesive sentences presently.

Clenching his jaw, the Auror's eyes turned to slits, likely screening her visage for some kind of scheme, and gave a non-committal grunt, clearly not being able to disagree with her on that point.

"Yes, well, we shall see about that," he grumbled, a statement that belied the issue was far from concluded but at least gave an air of finality to their conversation.

_Finally_, she breathed inwardly, looking forward to quiet her pounding temple.

"I bid you good evening, Miss Weasley." He gave a curt nod, his flinty gaze staying on her a couple of extra seconds, enough to send a chill coursing down Ginny's spine, before turning and walking languidly down the shadowed hallway and disappear to where he came from.

No, she definitely didn't like that guy or what was spinning in that dunderheaded..._head_ of his. He was up to something, that was for sure.

Wincing, she hunched over, placing her hands on her knees once again. Oh Merlin, her _brain_! It felt like it was going to jump out of her head and skedaddle down the corridor any time now. She groaned out loud when it took a turn for the worse. _Ugh_. _Terrific._

For a second her brain chose so conveniently to play tricks on her, letting the swirl of rancorous emotions form some weird sort of conspiracy theory to explain her current state of being: That the Head Auror _himself_ had somehow managed to spike her drink. Charmed it before it was handed over the bar counter. Planted the bartender. Whatever.

_Ludicrous_, she knew.

She thumped her temple (and immediately regretted the move) for being so stupid to even come to such theories. After all, she was a lightweight and hadn't really had alcohol for a long time until this evening, so it might as well just be her under practiced body taking its toll to the strong liquor. It wouldn't surprise her if the explanation was as simple as that nor that she, per instinct, refused to believe it. Damn it, if she didn't have the tendencies to a suspicious mind herself!

Willing those no-good thoughts away, she managed to calm her breathing; the throbbing in her head somewhat decreasing as she swallowed the cool, spacious air surrounding her and let the silence of the corridor invade her mind.

It would be _some_ time before she'd touch Firewhiskey again, she vowed to herself.

"You alright there, Weasley?" a familiar voice droned from behind her, making her yelp and whirl around in surprise for a second time that night.

This time she was faced with an all too pleased-looking Blaise Zabini leaning between the pilasters along the shadowed wall near the entrance to the Tower. His eyes had clearly been somewhere…else on her body because it was now travelling slowly up her torso before reaching her face, a sly smirk playing on his lips. A momentary shiver surged between her legs at the darkened, glittering gaze she found there.

What was it with men and sneaking up on people? Seriously!

And when did _he_ get here?! Were the forces conspiring against her or something? She just _had_ to run into Blaise Zabini of all people everywhere she went, didn't she?

Yet, compared to recent company, his presence was, admittedly, a welcomed one. She felt almost..._relieved_ to see him, before mentally smacking herself. _Ohh, no, Gin, don't you dare go down that road!_

She forcibly righted herself with an exasperated sigh, instinctively readying herself for a confrontation of some kind, as she caustically eyed the Italian by the wall.

"Lurk much?"

He gave an uncharacteristic grin that lighted up in the dark surrounding him – as if it was the most expectant and adorable thing she could have said, making her nerves tingle with something else than befuddlement at his sudden appearance.

"Nah. Just taking a break from the hubbub upstairs."

"Really?" she replied in disbelief. "I thought it was your thing?"

"My _thing_?" One brow rose visibly at the latter word.

"Yeah; partying, picking up girls, being at the center of attention and just your average kind of jerk. You know; all the stuff you attention freaks usually crave?" she gibed.

"Hardy har har," he responded dryly. "You're a right lark tonight, Weasley, you know that?"

_Hm. He doesn't rile easily tonight, _she pondered. _What's up with him?_

"And _you_ are a creepy, arrogant bundle of joy tonight, Zabini. Almost didn't recognize you there. Feeling alright yourself?"

"Fit as a well-polished broom," came his cocky reply.

_I bet you are, _she thought and harrumphed, "Oh, get your act together, Zabini. It's getting pathetic."

He merely chuckled from his spot in the shadows. "Says the tough-as-nails war heroine and Quidditch Captain who's dry-heaving after two shots of Firewhiskey."

She gaped. "You saw that?"

"Oh yeah, _I saw_," he chuckled briefly again, adding to her embarrassment and irritation at having been caught by him. She did not put much more thought into the fact that he must have kept a close eye on her for most of the evening. He must have hid himself well in the crowd somehow.

"For what it's worth," he continued, his demeanor taking on a more solemn note, "I think Zelenko is a git." Her eyes widened as he went on in a low voice that had an unusually earnest tone to it, "He doesn't know shit about you and has no right to presume anything." Followed by an awkward beat, he muttered, "Don't let that jerk get to you, Weasley. You're worth ten of his kinds."

_Wha–?_

Her mind was in a spin as she stared dumbfounded at him.

How could he possibly have heard all that?

Had _she _even heard correctly right now?

And why did he even care what some low-life Professor – barely a stranger – had said to her? It was hardly more than some stupid, cursory, and, frankly, _ignorant_ words thrown her way about her aspiring profession. She had had worse. She could take it.

But all she could manage to utter in response was a quiet, "Um, thanks…Zabini… I think."

Shrugging noncommittally, as if wanting to shrug off the suddenly much too pronounced, uncomfortable emotion hanging in the air between them, he merely gave a tight nod in return.

Still eyeing his shadowed form contemplatively, Ginny wondered if he had ever paid anyone an earnest compliment – if indeed he _was_ in earnest – and not expecting anything in return. It was an uncommon trait among Slytherins, after all. But, honestly, sometimes, one wouldn't know where the façade began and the personality ended with that lot.

Perhaps sensing her unmoving, intensive perusal of him, he uttered an impatient sigh as though trying to deflect any sense of insecurity, and his trademark, arrogant smirk was back in place, ready to gain the upper hand.

"By the way, I couldn't help overhearing some of what you said to Rowe. Positively _Slytherin_ what you did back there, Weasley," he drawled, looking like the cat that got the cream. "I must say, I'm impressed."

She scoffed as she crossed her arms across her chest, rocking back on her heels, and glared at him. "You're enjoying this far too much, I think." Pursing her lips at his obvious amusement, she quickly backtracked and retaliated, "So, where's Blondie Blond? Some important charity event for rich people she needed to attend to instead?"

For a moment he gave her a blank look. "Huh?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. Was he really that forgetful about his womanizing? "Your date, dumbass! The snooty one clinging to your arm like poison ivy the last time we saw each other. Remember?"

"Ah." He merely shrugged as if she had just informed him what time it was. "No soddin' clue," he said, lapsing into an informal tongue which was new to her ear. "I guess off with her mates to the party. Probably somewhere by the bar or snogging a Sixth Year, go figure."

Ginny arched a disbelieving eyebrow and gave a slight chortle. "Well! So much for The Great Zabini: The Chick Magnet!"

His head shot up, eyes narrowing. "What is that supposed to mean?"

She shrugged, unable to let a gleeful feeling – of getting a rile out of him – bubble up inside of her, humming in step with the alcohol. "Only that I had expected you to have laid _them all_ down by now."

He stepped forward, all cool, imposing self-confidence. Now partly out of the shadows, he was momentarily bathed in a silvery-blue light from the windows and moonlit sky above, only enhancing all his magnificently carved features. "Been thinking about that, have you?" Eyes twinkled dangerously. "About me… _getting it on_?"

"Please!" Ginny scoffed mockingly, but not liking the way this was going and shot back, "Since I find you alone, I guess you _haven't_ been 'getting it on', as you so charmingly put it. Phew! The girls must be so relieved, I bet!"

"Who says I haven't?" he countered with a teasing leer, jutting forth his lean hips, hands in pockets and drawing attention to his crotch.

Her eyes widened for a fraction as her stomach plummeted, but she managed to play it off in seemingly disgusted incredulity. "Yeah, _right_, Zabini. Even _you_ couldn't have managed _that_ in such a short time!" When his only response was a wolfish smirk and contradicting gleam in his eyes, she faltered, coming up short with what to say. "_And_ – even if you did, um– well, the _last_ thing I need to end my already _brilliant_ evening is listening to any sordid details about your latest booty call, thank you very much!"

Her chest heaved slightly, drawing his attention for a sultry moment before his gaze settled back on hers; the air suddenly thick enough to cut in despite the low room temperature.

Momentarily flummoxed, she quickly righted herself. "Look, just because your date has gone awry, doesn't mean you should hide here in the shadows and jump the bones of the next poor girl who comes along. That's just– _creepy_, Zabini. Even for you."

Surprising her again by taking no heat to her barb, his eyes were now positively black in the dark hallway, smoldering embers reflecting around the orbs.

"I've only been waiting for the right chance to do so," he uttered enigmatically, as if more to himself than to her, eyes dropping to her lips.

An unsettling feeling plummeted to her stomach.What was he on about?

Stepping closer again, virtually into her personal space, he bent forwards until his sultry mouth was mere inches away from her ear, letting a buzzing trail of breath hit the sensitive skin of her neck. "Because I think you _do_ want to listen. Very much so," his lips barely ghosting across her overheated skin, "I think you want to be that poor girl whose bones I jump."

_What the –!_

That did it!

Stepping back and out of his crowding – and way too heady – presence, she scowled up at his amused face, recognizing the telltale, glazed-over glimmer in the dark pools of his almond-shaped eyes and realizing that the great, ever so composed and cold Blaise Zabini… was_ drunk_!

She didn't think she had _ever_ seen him drunk.

Despite the situation and his coming on too strongly, she was rather impressed by how he was able to hold his liquor as he stood there; as rank, relaxed and smug as ever. She shouldn't be that surprised, really, that a Zabini was – if anything – always elegant; in whatever he or she did. A git, mind you, but an elegant one.

_Ugh. _That didn't even make sense! she snorted to herself.

"You're drunk, Zabini," she quipped, trying to find the upper footing again (if she ever had it).

He smiled lecherously, proudly confirming it. "Tell me something I _don't_ know, Weaslette."

"Don't call me that!"

Stepping closer once more, "Then what _should_ I call you? Little Weasel?" he taunted softly with a sobering mien as he lifted a hand to gently touch the lock of hair framing her face, "Red?", drawing closer still, eyes hooded, "My little… lioness?" The latter almost said in a purr.

Heart jumping in her throat at his words, she backed away, only to hit the hard surface of the wall behind her. Before she knew it, he had trapped her there, an arm on each side of her, leaning in so far that his lips could touch the shell of her ear and lower – if he wanted to.

Not that Ginny wanted him to.

_No. Certainly not_. He was an arrogant, insufferable Slytherin sleazebag who was currently drunker than her Aunt Muriel at Christmas dinners! (Which _really_ wasn't the kind of image she would like to have in her mind right now).

And she was not – nor _ever_ – about to 'get it on' with the number one ladies' man of Hogwarts! That was for sure!

Then why hadn't she moved?

Admittedly, she felt a little hazy from the alcohol still coursing steadily through her system. _Well, that's what happens when you choose vodka and a double Firewhiskey over some fruity cocktail_, she supposed. And leaning back against the cool stone wall for support _did_ feel relaxing – especially since her legs seemed to have gone all jelly-like.

"You okay there, Weasley?" his deep voice hummed just above her head, mirroring his words from before, but only now giving them a new meaning. Looking up she met Blaise's obsidian eyes swarming before her own bleary ones and gulped as she felt a drowsy, but nonetheless unmistakable throb between her legs. Heat pooling in her belly. A vague voice in the back of her thumbing head told her they had been here before but that this felt distinctly different. The warm puffs of his breath fanning over her face gave off a burned, woodsy smell of the liquor she herself had consumed earlier, mixed with the pressing heat of his body, his own, entirely masculine scent, sent shivers down her spine.

Or maybe it was just the cold hallway they were standing in?

"I– "

He was close.

_Very_ close.

So close she could take the time to truly study and admire how high his cheekbones went, the long, sculpted chin, the both sleek and broad lines of his nose, the specks of gold and amber in his black, hooded eyes, seeming to want to swallow her whole. His mouth… her eyes tracing the perfectly shaped Cupid's bow of his full upper lip –

Why could she somehow _never_ find the proper words to describe his lips, she asked herself in dozy frustration, eyes focusing in on said topic, now suspended just centimeters from her own.

Her head swamped with stirring images; she couldn't stop herself. _Damn her drunken brain!_

But… if he looked _this_ hungry, _this_ intoxicating, in every sense of the word, merely from leaning in close, then how would he not look when he –

Ginny gulped.

She had never really allowed herself to imagine what he really must look like – _be_ like in… _in bed_. Maybe for this very reason? Because she feared what that exact image would do to her; what venturing over that threshold would mean.

She almost went cross-eyed from staring up at his face mere inches from hers, the memory of their sudden kiss in the Prefects' Bathroom, the hard, warm press of his body against hers flashing before her eyes. She wanted to close her eyes and imagine those same, firm lips consumed, burning across skin like wildfire – like they were made for that particular task alone. Those magnificent panther-like features contorted with pleasure, eyes black and all-consuming, head bent forwards then backwards in throes of all-male ecstasy, exposing his throat and bobbing Adam's apple, his deep, Italian lilt cursing through and expanding the pleasure, those long, corded muscles of his neck and shoulders, a drop of sweat slowly sliding down across his criminally toned torso to –

_Merlin help her!_

She was really and properly buggered, wasn't she? (Or just _really_ drunk?)

And by the proximity and mere looks – however intoxicated – he gave her, she had an odd feeling he somehow was too.

Pulled inevitably towards each other.

Magnetized.

Oh, yes. She was truly _fucked_.

_Oh. _She hadn't quite expected her own bodily reaction to that particular word. _Merlin... _She bit back an audible moan.

What could only have been a few seconds seemed to stretch to minutes, _hours_, as they just stood there, hovering near each other, as if waiting for the other to react.

Blaise inhaled deeply, something seeming to dawn in his otherwise inebriated gaze, his eyes boring into hers.

"Weasley," he murmured, an undecipherable note to her name that seemed to come from deep within his chest, surprising himself, like a rumble of a rousing volcano; a gush of his hot, sweet breath wafting over her, clouding her judgment, and made her elicit something close to a whimper as the heat in her belly swirled, and the pulse between her legs throbbed painstakingly once more. A stirring within her chest, to the very tips of her breasts, threatened to make her arch against him in dangerous need of closeness and with a suppressed moan she fought to hold herself back.

_No._

She squirmed against the wall, both their breaths quickening and intermingling as whatever distance existed between them started to close in, however much their rational minds fought it. Or didn't?

It was all so confusing. Fuzzy. Whether from the alcohol or the moment… or both. What was the right thing to do? What was _the wrong_ thing to do? She couldn't rightly remember any longer. She knew she should, but all she could think about at the moment was how she would kiss him, touch him –

In a hypothetical scenario.

Of course.

Not this one.

This was–

_This was …_

"Blaise!"

They started and drunkenly jumped apart, facing the source of the voice that had so brutally ripped them out of their daze – much to both Ginny's disappointment and relief, feeling her breath leave with him as Blaise pulled out of her personal space.

The younger boy didn't spare the situation he had interrupted much thought but looked rather relieved at having found Blaise. Ginny vaguely recognized him to be one of Theo's mates from earlier.

"Thank Merlin I found you!" he said breathlessly. "Listen, you've got to come! You've got to help! Theo's gone bonkers! He's totally out of it!"

Blaise seemed to come to his senses at the mention of Theo's name, standing up straight and turning fully towards the boy. "What has he done now? Where is he?" he demanded.

The boy shrunk back, hesitating in his next answer and Ginny couldn't really blame him. Blaise could cut an intimidating figure.

"I, um, last time I saw him he was in the boys' dorm, trying to transfigure Thomas Bullsby from Sixth Year into a pig and sent him out of the window, because he said he wanted to prove to Lewis Allcut from Seventh Year who is Muggle-born that pigs _can_ fly," the boy rattled off, twisting his hands nervously. "I'm not sure how it went on from there or if they stayed there, because I ran for help – to find you."

Blaise's strong-lined jaw clenched. "Bloody hell, Theo," he grumbled to himself, and Ginny could see the wheels turning, trying to get through the alcohol-induced fog in his head.

"Should– should I go find a teacher?" the boy piped up.

"_No_!" Blaise barked, making the boy flinch again before the Italian stepped closer to him and lowered his voice in stern vehemence. "_No_ teachers. I'll deal with this." Without a spare glance back at Ginny, Blaise clamped a hand down on the boy's shoulder and said: "Show me to him."

Nodding nervously, the boy turned and started walking hurriedly down the hallway with Blaise following close behind, a deep-set frown having replaced his earlier flirtatious mien as his long legs carried him forward with tense determination. Before she knew it, they had reached the corner to the stairs and were gone.

Ginny let out a deep breath she didn't know she had been holding, letting her pounding head fall back against the wall and shut her eyes close.

_Damn him!_

Once again, Zabini had managed to rile her good and proper up and then just left her there; standing bewildered against a wall with her head screwed on the wrong way, heart beating wildly and legs wobbly.

But could she really blame him this time? It was rather a noble act to come to his friend's rescue, wasn't it? She couldn't tell how serious it sounded, but apparently Blaise – who knew Theo best, after all – thought so since he didn't want any teachers involved. He could just have given his usual derisive scoff and said Theo only had himself to blame; that he wasn't his keeper.

But he hadn't. He really cared. If not for Theo's safety, then for his reputation – or his own, since everybody knew they hung out together most of the time. Either way, he had wanted to help. That, at least, had to count for something.

The image of him and the way he had looked at her tonight flitted across her foggy mind, making her whimper in restrained desire and confusion. She was tired of waiting; waiting for something she hardly even knew what was or had any inkling what she was supposed to do about it. And there he was. Playing hide-and-seek with her. Giving her mixed signals. Or was _she_ doing that?

For crying out loud! She couldn't wrap her head around him. Make up her mind about him_. Them!_ And his mouth, that sinful smirk that promised–

_Ugh!_

_There you go again! Stupid Ginny!_

_And damn him!_

And_ his stupid mouth!_

_Again!_

She was so dizzy and drunk and, frankly, exhausted from the entire evening's dealings that the only thing she could think of doing was letting her heavy head meet her nice, comfy pillow in her nice, comfy bed. _Godric, yes._

With one last great exertion she pushed herself off the wall, reeling slightly, brain feeling like a soggy cotton ball in her head, and then turned to pad down the empty hallway towards her sleeping quarters, hoping her feet would guide her most of the way so that she did not manage to get lost.

Whatever important stuff she needed to decide upon – decide regarding _Blaise_ – she could do so tomorrow, after all. Hopefully, the worst thing that could happen was waking up to a merciless hangover.

Right now, that seemed the most definite conclusion she could draw from tonight's events.


	19. Drunken men tell no tales

As Blaise was working his way up the stairs towards the boys' dorm, he was mentally working himself out of the fog currently inhabiting his brain and slowing down the sharpness of his senses considerably.

Not that he was a man unable to hold his liquor; having specialized in it over the past couple of years, but what he had _not_ countered on was the entirely drug-inducing effect _she_ had had on him.

Sure, _he_ was the one who had come on to her in the first place, hoping – as he always did – to get some more exciting action out of a so-far tedious night, already grown tired of his compulsory, vapid Slytherin date whom he had ditched somewhere along the way. _Why_ he had even chosen that blonde to begin with eluded him in a way that he, so far, had chosen to ignore in the promise of getting laid. Whether the girl actually had a brain or not had never been that high on his agenda; besides, he never really bothered getting to know _any_ of his dates. Plus, they were so, well, _easy_. Not exactly slags, just easily _molded_ to his needs. He definitely never had to ask twice.

However, ever since _constantly_ stumbling into that infamous She-Weasel (probably – if he wanted to admit it – ever since that time in Sixth Year when she'd had the audacity to quip about his vanity), he had recognized a deeper dissatisfaction with his romantic liaisons. Something he likely had denied until _she_ had given him a run for his money, not falling for his outer charms or any other flirtatious bullshit of his. He acknowledged _that_, at least.

And so, he found himself growing more quickly tired of every bird he found after that, unconsciously searching for something else, something… _more_, and none of them proving to be that great a challenge in any capacity, anyway.

Then again, had he not unwittingly always compared them to _her_ in some way or another? Imagining what _she_ would say or do if–

He felt almost ill, a sense of blasphemy still habitually rising at the thought of linking _any_ of the Weasels to anything other than blood-traitorous rodents.

But, deep down, he _had_ been greatly amused by the girl's boldness, unable not to admire her from afar, her obvious spirits and beauty; no matter how he otherwise felt about her particularly unfortunate genetics and House affiliation. It was an alluring clash, he found himself admitting; only _heightened_ by his subtle observations of her 'extra-curricular activities' in their later years. The girl certainly didn't shy away from showing her _appetite_ around those insipid, doe-eyed boys she for some inexplicable reason chose to partner up with, and he would be lying if he said he hadn't contemplated on making her another nod in his bedpost.

The opinions of his Housemates on the matter didn't really bother him that much, despite what he might have said once. After all, it was just sex, and he could easily use it as pretext and make them believe it was nothing of consequence – just as he did to himself. Or rather; that _he_ would be the one to use _her_. _Conquer_ her. The Gryffindor Lioness. _Ah, yes._

Only, her animosity to be considered, on the other hand, far outshone any hypothetical occurrence of such intimate interaction; never stooping so low to sully herself with a Slytherin, Merlin forbid! He almost pitied Gryffindors and their damned holier-than-thou principles; bedding _any_ Slytherin at _any_ time was simply out the question!

They didn't know what they missed.

But with circumstances now thrust upon them both and having had the chance – or rather the liberty – to have her delicious body pressed against his, not once, but _twice_, and standing so close he hardly knew where his breath began and hers ended, he knew he would not lightly forget any comparisons to her in future conquests. And it troubled him. She had slithered her way in under his skin, far deeper than he liked. The heedless fantasies of her freckled porcelain skin flushed and bared in front of him in throes of passion under _his_ ministrations were more and more frequently popping up into his mind, teasing his natural proclivities to a frustrating, almost unbearable point.

Thus his (regrettable) resuming liaison with a certain former Hufflepuff with whom he'd perhaps had the longest-standing arrangement, and, for a time, it had been good to get his kicks out with her. Yet, thoughts of _her_ kept nagging in the back of his head, for some reason beyond mere thought of conquest. Especially after that fatal meeting in the Prefects' Bathroom where he had witnessed up-close just how _womanly_ she had become in every sense of the word. Despite (or because of?) the familiar signs of warfare and melancholy lingering around the edges, sharpening her countenance. She had grown up.

_By Salazar_, had she grown up!

Don't get him wrong; she still had the bratty attitude of a true Gryffindor witch, grating his nerves with that well-known ignition he hadn't experienced since before the war.

But looking down into her face; those surprised, confused and angry eyes staring back up at him, the mirror was reflecting far too much for his own likening, something he tried desperately to ignore once he had escaped that steamy room.

He had seen something else he couldn't escape.

And tonight he hadn't been able to escape it either. Why, he had practically _initiated_ it with his inane attempt of small talking after they had darted Filch and that bloody ghost the same afternoon! Sometimes he damned his own flirtatious mouth for acting out so instinctively!

It hadn't helped how striking she had looked in her (presumably and not too shabby-looking Muggle) outfit when he spotted her berating a group of Second Year-party crashers and he, so conveniently, chose to 'bump' into her. In order to get a reaction out of her? For her to notice him? He couldn't rightly say. But he _had_ wanted to make an impression; to revert back to the image of his former self after having been so careless to show weakness that afternoon in the Astronomy Tower.

At first, his initial reaction to his own display had been one of repulsion, but also, strangely, relief. Like a bubble inside him had deflated instead of burst. She hadn't judged him. No, actually, she seemed to understand _exactly_ why he had needed to let his guard down; to give in to his frustration and sense of helplessness regarding the whole Dementor situation. In the end, she was the only other person to have witnessed it all, firsthand.

The famous war heroine, hailed around the world for her courage. She had all the cards on her hand when it came to verifying his credibility in the matter. Every opportunity to settle the scores between them and what had happened to her friends during the war. He was, after all, not _entirely_ innocent in any case.

And _still_, she stood by him – like it was the most natural thing to do. No hidden agendas. No lies. No black-and-white justification of the past.

_Damned Gryffindor virtue!_

As his mind had stayed on her after leaving her riled and puzzled by the dorm entrance this evening, pulling his bothersome date along with him, already thinking of some way to get of the latter, his thoughts had been further occupied by Theo's drunken appearance; another disturbing reminder of how their lives had been before and during the war, behind the curtains. The little scenario brought his musings to what occurred next:

"_What was up with _him_?" his date inquired, staggering to keep up._

_Blaise blinked, thoroughly distracted, "Hm?"_

"_Why, Theo, of course!" the girl huffed beside him, put out by his inattention._

_The faintly disconcerted expression on his face vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Ah, well, Theo," he shook his head and chuckled overbearingly, deflecting any outward worry. "Can never bring him anywhere. That boy sure knows how to start a party."_

_The blonde on his arm tsked in a pathetic attempt to demonstrate sympathy – as if she suddenly had a deep kinship with the subject of their discussion. "Always Theo. He never changes, does he?" she lamented rhetorically, her attention quickly diverted by the more lively parts of the festivities around them._

_A twitch surfaced in Blaise's brow. "No," he muttered under his breath to no one in particular. "No, I guess, he doesn't," the meaning of the words falling on deaf ears._

Despite having feigned disinterest in Nott's welfare, Blaise kept a close, surreptitious eye on him after the teens holding him had deposited their 'cargo' in a settee arrangement near the entrance to the boys' dormitories. Theo was too far gone to protest or move once seated and instead blearily drank away his sorrows by himself or accosted unaware bystanders with drunken babble, accompanied by little too eager gestures.

Having finally had enough of watching the boy's misdemeanor, Blaise excused himself from his boring company and helped his mate up the stairs, leaving him in their dorm room, hoping Theo, at least, had enough brain cells left for the night to figure out how to get to bed by himself.

Of course, he should have known better.

He sighed. _What troubles had that boy gotten himself into now?_

Apropos, after coming back down to the party, Blaise had been caught by the sight of a red-haired individual by the bar, standing tensely beside a friend while facing off a certain new teacher whom Blaise had already had the courtesy of knowing through class. _A right wanker, that one,_ he had quickly sussed.

He moved to stand inconspicuously nearby, eavesdropping on their highly interesting 'conversation' and had deliberately followed her after witnessing her downing two shots of Firewhiskey and running out of there, quicker than you could say 'Merlin's saggy pants'! Then, he had stayed in the shadows by the corridor when she happened to 'run into' another unwelcoming figure in the shape of the Head Auror himself. Blaise had been fairly impressed by her skills of deflection, though they were a bit rough around the edges… from a Slytherin's point of view. Still, he could sense discomfiture and distrust rolling off of her in waves and he didn't blame her. That dude was one suspicious, unremitting son of a–

"Nott! Mate! Watch out!"

"Hey, don't do that–!"

Blaise was pulled from his ruminations as he now found himself, for the second time that night, in the door opening to one of the dorm rooms, taking in the scene before him. It was currently occupied by a couple of Sixth and Seventh Year boys; the worried onlookers to an highly entertained and even more intoxicated Theo than last seen (if that was even possible) perched in the frame of an open window, dangling a poor boy – turned one-third pig with wings – mid-air above the floor from the point of his wavering wand.

Stepping into the room, Blaise quietly made his presence known, and the boys whipped their heads towards him; eyes wide, gulping nervously, yet also clearly relieved to see him. The movement belatedly caught Theo's attention as well as he turned to the door, his red-cheeked, pale face breaking into a bleary-eyed recognition.

"Blaise! Blaisey-boy! There you are! Where on earth have you been?! I've been looking all over for you! You've missed all the fun," he chortled excitedly and momentarily forgot the Levitated boy who, as a result, took a dangerous dive towards the floor and would have crashed if Blaise's quick wand reflexes hadn't caught him just before he hit the ground. The boy's snout-faced expression seemed greatly thankful for that, so did the boys standing around him.

"Quit mucking about, Theo," Blaise sighed, disgruntled, and transfigured the boy back to himself, ignoring Theo's protests from the window. "Scatter off," he then addressed the spectators sternly, "Go to bed and forget this ever happened. I do _not_ want to hear it whispered in the Great Hall in the morning nor ever. Is that understood?"

The boys nodded rapidly, shooting apprehensive looks at Theo – who took a large swig from a champagne bottle in his hand – before dispersing and hopping into their respective, curtained canopy beds.

Crossing his arms over his broad chest, Blaise eyed his friend in the windowsill with a reproachful, resigned mien. He was, after all, not surprised by his behavior. Theo had sought refuge in the bottle from a rather early age, given the treatment he received from home, and had always had the tendency to go on _long_ benders; habit still sticking. Likely gotten himself into a lot of trouble, too, had it not been for Blaise and Draco's interference, halting him from doing stupid things or hurting himself. Most of the times. Other times, they were too late.

"_Sooo_, how'z your date?" the subject of his brooding interrupted with a leer.

"Huh?" For a moment, flashes of a flustered, slightly intoxicated, certain female redhead flitted through Blaise's mind and he froze at the thought that his friend had somehow managed to witness his interaction with the Weaslette just moments ago.

_Why_ he was worried, he wasn't sure. There was no way his reeling friend could have been two places at once given his current state.

"_You know_," Theo drawled, "Selena Kaiser? Ssznooty, blond Slytherin. Brother Oden was a year above us, remember? Best Quid-_hiccup_-ditch Player six years in a row. Man, _that_ one was a legend. Pure Slytherin ari-_hiccup_-stocracy." Perhaps realizing he was digressing, he sluggishly shook off his wistful expression and got back on track. "Anywayssz. Went _well_?" He wiggled his eyebrows, tongue curling under his front teeth as he tried to lean slightly over in the windowsill and at the same time steady himself.

Inwardly, Blaise breathed in relief. "Oh, right, _her_."

"Yeah, _her_," Theo scoffed lecherously then made a comical face as something seemed to dawn on him. "Wait. Who did _you_ think I meant?"

Blaise didn't care much for the Cheshire cat-smile that formed on his friend's face in the silence that followed. Even drunk as a skunk, Theo had his moments of disconcerting astuteness, albeit slower in process than normal.

Deciding to avert his question, Blaise shrugged noncommittally, turning his attention to an empty canopy bed on his left, picking at one of its shabby tassels.

"Yeah, well, bit of a dim bird, if you ask me. Got rather quickly bored with her and dumped her skinny arse somewhere along the party. But I'm sure she's having a right blast," he derided in obvious indifference.

Theo hiccupped and turned fully towards him from his place in the window. "_Nah-ah_, don't you try sszidestepping the isszue here," he slurred with a reprimanding finger in a rather useless attempt to appear stern.

Cocking a caustic eyebrow, the Italian pursed his lips. "Your mouth is running off with you as usual, Nott. I have no idea what you are on about, so will you please drop it and come down from there already?"

"Aha!" Theo exclaimed exaggeratedly (prompting Blaise to shush him in annoyance) and pointed with bottle in hand, "I _knew_ there was something! Or rather some_one_! And I will bet all the Knuts and Sickles in Gringotts that that _someone_ is a certain redheaded –"

"_Theo_," Blaise interjected warningly.

"–feisty –"

"_Right_."

"–hot, little –"

"_Hm._"

"–Weasley!"

Blaise heaved a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. When did he ever learn? Asking Theo to keep his nose out of other people's businesses was like asking snakes not to slither. And Theo was a Slytherin through and through.

"And I suspect you are going to make some follow-up joke about me having met in secret with one of the _male_ Weasels, aren't you?" he deadpanned.

Theo grinned deviously, stretching and stroking his thin torso in catlike satisfaction. "Aww, Blaisey-boy, you know me so well!"

"And you_ know_ I am not going to deign you with an answer," Blaise rumbled tersely, hoping to inflict enough finality about the matter into his voice for his friend to get the message.

"Ah, but your responses tell me everything I want to know," Theo continued to grin in the same mischievous manner and Blaise momentarily cursed him for being his friend. Why he even bothered letting _anyone_ close was a mystery indeed.

"_That good_ was she?" the pale boy teased when he got no response.

_Again with the infuriating, unrelenting questions!_

Growling lowly, Blaise shot daggers at his grinning friend. "You know, I'm sorely tempted to cast a Muffliato on you at this moment."

Theo blinked owlishly for a couple of seconds. Then his face broke and he convulsed into a fit of hysteric, somewhat contrived laughter, almost falling down the windowsill from the effect. _Why _it was so darn funny, Blaise had no clue, and, frankly, he didn't care.

"Would you _please_ keep it down, Nott?" he hissed, jaw clenched. "This has already been far too publicized a conversation for my taste, not to mention, _utterly_ asinine. Let's not tempt fate any further."

Theo simply kept sniggering, pointing a mocking finger at him, "Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Let the entire school know just how deep in it you are? And with your former fiend, no less?!"

Not taking the bait, Blaise crossed his arms once more and regarded his friend with a withering stare until the giggles on the other end slowly started evaporating.

The boy gave one last hiccupping giggle, shrugging, "Okay, I tried. But I still think you should give it a shot, Blaisey-boy. F-fuck the gossipers!" he proclaimed dramatically before sending the Italian a twinkling wink. Blaise couldn't rightly say if he was serious or not.

"Hm. I'll take that into consideration," he muttered dryly in return.

"Music to my sschweet earz," Theo sing-songed, taking another generous gulp of the large bottle in his hand, and Blaise rolled his eyes, not bothering to correct his friend who seemed to suddenly have reached a state past drunkenness.

Holding out an arm, he beckoned him down from the windowsill. "Now, come on, Teddy, get a move on. Can't be standing around here all night."

"Hmm-_riiight_." Theo's brows drew together, trying to focus in on Blaise and pointing the bottle at him, "Prefect. You. I remem-_hiccup_-ber."

"Exactly. _Me_. _Prefect. _Also: _Your friend_," Blaise replied with measured patience. "Now, get down from there and get into bed, so that I don't have to Levitate you down myself."

Theo pouted petulantly. "_Hmph_, always so fussy. I'm perfectly fine, I tell you," he groused, starting to tip forward just in time for Blaise to step forward and grab hold of one strong, bony shoulder, steering him safely to the floor and taking the near-empty bottle from him. A little unsteady on the legs, the lanky boy managed to stagger towards the line-up of beds, coming to the wrong one, of course, before Blaise intercepted him, guiding him towards Theo's own bed and pushing him to sit down.

"Get some sleep and I'll see you in the morning, yeh mate?"

"Righty-o," Theo saluted in mock-seriousness, stifling a burp. He glanced around him on the bed as if, for a moment, unsure how to go from there, then exhaled heavily and threw himself on top of the duvet, grabbing its hems and rolled into a ball, clothes, wand and all.

Blaise shook his head and was just about to retreat from his slumbering friend when Theo stirred an eyelid, shooting him another groggy, albeit sneaky look above the covers of his cocooned form.

"Snuggle up with me?" he entreated with an innocent mien. "Pretty, _please_?"

Suppressing an eye-roll, Blaise sighed, "Mate, come on. I'm not gonna snuggle up with you, you know that."

Usually, Theo was very childlike in his various stages of drunkenness, at other times excessively randy, and given his close to unlimited preferences (though he normally chose to keep a low profile about it), he had propositioned both Blaise and Draco over the years when they brought his wobbly body to bed. They always forbearingly declined, knowing their friend wasn't in his senses, and Blaise often suspected the boy wanted comfort more than sex and not all that aware who he asked in particular. Thank Salazar, Theo did not take much in life personally and usually forgot everything that had happened in his drunken stupor, returning to his sarcastic, pensive and perverted old self the next day.

Though the boy's mouth, at present, was hidden under the duvet, Blaise knew it was curved into a pouting line, seeing his puppy-dog-eyes pleading up at him.

Shaking his head once again in affirmation, the Italian sucked his teeth and turned to saunter to his own bed, weary and head in a spin, having already had more of his fair share of adventures for the night.

"Go to sleep, Nott," he called back over his shoulder, knowing, without looking, that Theo had heard him. It was always like this with that boy. And just as he predicted he heard a couple of demonstrative grunts of displeasure behind him, the rustling of sheets and then – after a beat – the heavy breathing of Theodore Nott, gone out like a light.

Blaise readied himself for bed and though decidedly exhausted, he ended up tossing and turning restlessly for a couple of hours, listening to Theo's light snores until sleep finally took him.

The last images that flew across his mind were colored by various, muddied emotions, thoughts and faces. A pair of bewildered, amber eyes stood out and the image transformed into a hazy-edged scenery; of _her_ gazing back at him across a crowded room. Her expression curiously melancholy as she mouthed something he did not catch and turned away in a swirl of red hair, disappearing from his sight, like a gust of wind through an open window.

When he groggily awoke the next morning, hung-over and not at all rested, he wasn't rightly sure what parts of last night's events had been real and what had been imagined.


	20. Of reflections and flight

Unexpectedly, Ginny woke to an unusually docile hangover.

A long morning shower made her all the more awake and refreshed in that lethargic, well-rested sort of way that only Sunday mornings could inspire, and after slipping into a comfortable pair of jeans and a light jumper, she padded towards breakfast as the Scottish winter sun smiled down on her through the castle's tall windows, warming her limbs to the bone.

Sipping her coffee (plus a bit of hair of the dog, grateful for her brothers learning her a trick or two) and nibbling at her toast, she sat by herself in the basically empty Great Hall, only vacated by a couple of groggy-looking students, clearly descendants of last night's party, coming and – sometimes quickly – going again.

Thankfully, she didn't spot Zabini anywhere. She couldn't quite stomach facing him right now.

Parvati, on the other hand, had managed to catch her before breakfast finished; to ask where she went last night, and Ginny felt partly chagrined as well as relieved about it. She _had_ thought about finding the twin to explain her abrupt departure but couldn't come up with the right lie without looking guilty or giving away more than she wanted. Luckily, Parvati didn't seem the least bit miffed by being ditched, if only concerned about the reason why.

"No, really, Parvati, it was nothing. Just a slight dizziness. I'm fine now, thank you," Ginny reassured her a second time with a ghost of a smile, unable to brush off the girl whose sincere face was currently painted in sympathy.

Straightening, Parvati darted her a slightly unconvinced glance before smiling in final acceptance of her answer. "Glad to hear, Ginny. Anyways, it was fun as long as it lasted." She gave a light-hearted grin and squeezed her hand. The corners of Ginny's mouth tugged upwards momentarily as she gave a light squeeze back.

Parvati then leaned in conspiratorially, a sly smile playing on her lips. "You know, _the Professor_," Ginny flinched slightly by his mentioning as the other girl continued, oblivious to her reaction, "He was rather _peeved_ by your sudden departure."

"Really?" Ginny inquired, keeping her attitude nonchalant.

"Oh yes." The twin could no longer withhold a knowing grin from spreading on her face, as if she thought Ginny was eager to hear the gossip involving herself. "Actually, he continued to ask me a couple of questions about you."

Apprehension creeping under her skin, Ginny eyed her friend's smug expression. "What _kind_ of questions?"

"Well," she drawled, "first of all, he wanted to know if you were usually like that at parties. You know; you _were_ kind of snappy and then just stalked off," she chided good-naturedly. Ginny scowled at the audacity of the man's query. _Who was _he_ to ask? _Parvati simply gave a coy, knowing smile. "Then he asked if you had any 'boy troubles'."

"_What_?!" Quickly composing herself, Ginny ducked her head and squinted at the other girl. "And what did you have to say to that?"

"Why, I simply said no, you weren't usually like that, and that I wasn't sure if it was because of 'boy troubles'," Parvati responded all too innocently.

Gnashing her teeth together, Ginny closed her eyes briefly. "And you didn't ask why he, a _teacher_, was suddenly so _overly_ interested in my personal life?"

Gawking at her, Parvati bit her lip and looked down, having the grace to blush. "Um, no, I didn't think of it." Glancing back up, seeing Ginny's reaction, she proceeded apologetically, "Honestly, I didn't, Ginny! I– I guess I was pretty wasted by then myself. And he was just so – _dreamy_," she breathed with a sheepish shrug.

Ginny shot her a dubious look and harrumphed. Why was she even surprised that Parvati had been too entranced by some male specimen to pose any kind of inquisitive questions to his own?

"It's alright," she replied tersely. "It's not your fault."

Lightening up, Parvati gave a timid smile in return and Ginny huffed quietly, inadvertently smitten by her spirits. The girl was so easily pleased.

"Well, I better get back to the others," Parvati spoke, her cheery disposition back in place, and stood. Turning halfway towards her again, she said, "Let's hang out sometime again. You know, like we used to."

Taken somewhat aback by the kind offer, Ginny found her defenses up, ready to decline, but stopped herself and instead smiled wistfully. "I'd like to, Parvati. Very much so."

"Good. That's settled then. Just let me know when you want to catch up," she replied brightly and waved before she returned to her friends' table.

Sitting for a while, contemplating Parvati's word, Ginny chanced a speculative look to the High Table. Zelenko wasn't there.

Why was he so interested in her? It was unsettling to imagine, indeed. Was he simply a chauvinistic snob; needing to put his students (or just women in general) in place by the means of his 'higher intellects' and 'oh-so-charming looks'?

She gave an internal scoff. _More like the charms of a snake!_

Speaking of; it reminded her of another certain serpent-like charmer but one with significantly _less_ intentional bite than the former.

That gave her pause. There _had_ been something off about the new Professor, hadn't there? Former Slytherin or not, springing his saccharine condescension and backhanded compliments on her like that had seemed so inappropriate in the first place; almost _too_ coincidental with her and Blaise's recent Dementor run-in and the Aurors' persistent misgivings simmering around them. She couldn't help wondering if there was a connection somehow...?

_Oh, snap out of it, Gin! You need to let that caffeine work properly before you begin spouting out conspiracy theories!_

Draining her mug, she pushed her empty dishes into the middle of the table and they immediately vanished from the surface, thanks to the continual efficiency of the school house-elves downstairs. _Some things never did change_, she smiled to herself and grabbed the Prophet and a croissant on her way out the Hall, exchanging a friendly nod with Parvati's group of friends that she had briefly met last night.

Still, as she left, and all through the day, the disquieting questions surrounding the new teacher kept flitting across her mind every now and then, on top of everything else; marring her brow with a permanent frown by the end of the day. She had otherwise set out to enjoy a relaxing Sunday, nursing her slight hangover and weary bones, and not let anything past get to her. She had even successfully managed to avoid a certain dark-skinned wizard all day and suspected he had done his utmost to avoid her for the same reasons as well.

_If he even _remembers_, Gin._

Berating herself for her silly thoughts, she finished the last of a Transfiguration essay due to Monday and got to bed, having no energy to give any of the above 'gentlemen' any more thought.

Sleep came belatedly, like a slow-working drug that kept her half-afloat; not letting her heavy limps rest fully and turning her bed first too hard and then too soft. Her troubled mind gave away to restive dreams; a thick fog clouding and pushing through, making her skin and sheets damp as she fought through one haze, then another. She ran and ran and ran.

And then she saw him again!

So happy and carefree – her Fred! Turning towards her, arms opening and that wicked big brother grin in place that she missed terribly – that she loved so much – beckoning her closer, teasing her about her Quidditch team not measuring up but secretly showing his pride in her leader skills. She laughed and walked across the hazy shimmer towards his clear manifestation, getting closer and yet not close enough. Then, without blinking, she was before him as if having Apparated, without losing sight of his dancing eyes grinning back at her through their misty surroundings.

A mist, she noticed, that had turned from foggy-white to a troublesome grey and now gave a rumbling pull like a storm brewing, pushing her senses to a dreamlike, ominous awakening.

The smile turned stilted, like a doll's, in his face; bright, questioning eyes drawing downwards in a twisted frown.

'Ginny..?' She followed his gaze, 'Why do you have so much blood on your hands?'

Eyes widened in horror as she looked down and indeed saw fresh, red tendrils along her palms, dripping from her tips of her fingers; black-red splotches clotted under her nails. Then she heard her brother say next, just above a whisper and almost accusingly:

'Why do you no longer master your magic? Why are you no longer in control?'

'What? _Fred_? No! _No_. I am. I am I am I am! I– !'

Darkness, thick and tangled, swirled around them and before she had the chance to look up and get one full glimpse of him, he had been swallowed whole; the disappointment in his vivid eyes the last spectre lingering in her mind.

_Gods no– nononono–_

"NO!"

She screamed and bolted upright, soaked in cold sweat. With a strangled breath, she disentangled her legs from the covers and flung them over the side of the bed to brace herself. For a moment, she just sat there, squeezing her eyes shut and clutching the corners of the bed, dazedly waiting for the images to fade away. The feelings that came with them did not, however.

Looking down at her hands spread before her she saw the memory of blood still shimmering around them, before she blinked it away and rose, clumsily progressing towards the bathroom. The light crudely blinded her and she hunched over by the sink, heaving slightly. Ignoring the mirror until she had splashed generous dozes of icy water into her face, she begrudgingly looked up. What she saw was weariness itself staring back at her. Her porcelain skin looked translucent, with a greyish pallor that made her appear ghost-like in the artificial bathroom light and showed evident signs of her many restless nights. Her light-brown eyes were dull and glazed, the remains of a bonfire slowly ebbing away.

She closed her eyes again.

Sometimes she wanted to run. To run and skip and jump as fast as her legs could carry her until she sprouted wings and lifted from the ground, soared into the sky, and flew away, far away, to faraway places, never to return. Leave everything, and everyone, behind.

But she couldn't.

She couldn't leave those she loved and cared about behind, no matter how much her soul ached for it sometimes.

That was why she loved Quidditch. It was the closest thing she came to this feeling of freedom. Being in the air. The physical and mental control. The confidence. The _rush_. And where the only thing involving magic was the broom hovering in the air, letting her guide it wherever and however she wanted it. She couldn't envision herself in any other kind of profession for the rest of her life. Just the thought of it... It stifled her lungs.

Now nursing a slight headache from the rude awakening and lack of sleep, her pained thoughts still spinning around Fred, she decided to use her wakefulness to write a letter to George and go to the Owlery one of the coming days to post it. Hopefully, it would soothe her restless soul to console a bit with the twin; she knew he wouldn't see it as a show of pity since he must have nightmares of his own to battle with.

She so hoped they – _all_ of them – would one day find a way together in their common grief and consolation. Some sort of peace. An _aching_ peace, yes; the pain would likely never go away, but peace nonetheless.

_Yes. One day._

**X**

It was only in the days following the party, when reality and dreams were carefully disentangled and separated, that Blaise really took in what had happened during that night and came to a daunting conclusion:

_He wanted her_. And _she_ wanted _him_. Even through their alcohol-induced stupor that much was clear. After all, when it came to reading women and their desires in particular, his abilities remained unruffled. Why they _shouldn't_ be unruffled, he had no idea–

_OK, what's this? Get your arse back on track here!_

Clearing his throat, he stared holes into the Potions essay he had been working on, sitting in the vacated Common Room of the Prefect quarters. However, just like before, he couldn't hold his concentration for long; his stream of consciousness slipping from perfecting a wound-cleaning potion to the generous sprinkle of freckles on clear porcelain skin.

The 'astute' fact that they were attracted to each wasn't such a surprise, really. In _his_ case, he had likely known it long before last night; initially, in the usual and entirely shallow way and dismissed it as such. But not this. Not–

_Wait. Hold your Hippogriffs for a second, mate_, he staggered in his mind. _You're definitely rambling. Like you were _actually nervous. Insecure. _Zabinis, most certainly, _do not_ get nervous or, Merlin forbid, insecure!_

He snarled at himself in disgust. What on earth was the matter with his brain?! Why go down these idiotic, useless lines of thought?

Now that he knew Ginny desired him, he could use that to his advantage. _Yeah, that's right_, he thought smugly to himself. The Slytherin in him couldn't wait to test the waters; to see just _how much_ he could use it as his advantage.

_What advantage?_ a small, moralizing voice piped up from somewhere inside his head (where the hell did _that _come from?!) and continued: To get what he wanted? Which was what, exactly? To get _laid_?

He was surprised by how a part of him, a deeper part, refused to correspond with the latter. Sure, he wouldn't mind getting to know her better in _that_ particular way – no, sir, not _at all_ – but it wasn't his first priority. Not even one of his highest.

He did a double take on that realization. _Cripes_. It might just have been the first time in his life he had ever considered something other than a quick lay with a girl.

His initial instincts recoiled from the sentimentality of such a notion. The change was almost _too_ cliché. _Like hell_ if he was getting soft about a girl! He was a _Zabini_, for crying out loud! _No one _could 'tame' (he spat the word in his head) a Zabini, much less come close enough to measure up to one. Zabinis _did_ the taming.

But the girl in question wasn't just any person now, was she?

On the surface, an enthralling individual, for sure. She stood out from the crowd, in name and in presence. And he would lie if he said he didn't enjoy their little power play; she was a worthy competitor indeed, with a wit rivaling his own. He saw much of himself in her, actually, cringing slightly at the comparison but nonetheless continued down the line of observation. Famous, Pureblood, independent, attractive, sharp (she certainly possessed more brain cells than all those dopehead brothers of hers collectively). But what separated her from him on all accounts (_ahem, besides the most obvious_) was her unquestionable _nerve_, her (_Merlin help him_) 'loyal and caring Gryffindor nature' and the fact that she was unanimously beloved everywhere she went. Especially by the public, despite the buzzing rumour of her little break-up with Potty didn't sit well with them. Still, Blaise could _not_ claim to have the same 'luxuries'.

And yet, there was something else about her, now that he had had the chance to see it up close, in a new light, a couple of times. A tension hiding in that otherwise fiery aura she exuded. Not unusual given what they've been through, but the way it lingered around her in unaware moments; casting a cloud over her countenance, told him its claws had sunk in deeper than expected. More than she was, most likely, able to deal with. Not easily rid off, either. So, she resigned herself with it, hid it to the best of her abilities and quietly, bit by bit, wrestled with every little trivial action where it manifested itself.

Now, he didn't particularly like to admit just _how_ much he had noticed. Sometimes he could smack himself for his own perceptiveness. It had served him faithfully throughout many an ordeal, but it _really_ did him no good when it took hold of his usually well-reserved emotions as well (some he vehemently denied he even had!).

But ... He _did_ recognize the control with which she held this 'shadow' from general view. _More_ than recognized. He could hardly deny it any longer. And he couldn't help but wonder if anyone else saw it in her. Especially, her closest ones. She seemed none the closer to betterment, if you could even talk about betterment, since he first recognized this 'mask' in the Prefects' Bathroom.

Strange.

Or, perhaps, not so strange.

Despite her Gryffindor gregariousness and unflagging popularity, given her statuses as Head Girl _and_ Quidditch Captain, not to mention, her host of doe-eyed fans around the school, she did seem alone most of the time, now that her little, obnoxious gang of friends had mostly departed or sorted into new Houses. The Granger girl hung around her every now and then, he'd noticed. When she _was_ around, that is.

Not that he had given it any thought prior to the school year, but if someone had said to him _then_ that the Weaslette, of all the Gryffindor heroes, would be the one left more or less friendless and alone after the war, he'd have scoffed in their face.

As if unconsciously unlocking a box long buried, he was sent back to the previous school year and the terrorizing Carrows getting their hold on her and her little 'resistance' group time and time again. He had never intervened, of course, only observed her dazed and bloodied appearance emerging from being punished for her defiance. A defiance that was never beaten, however. None of them were. His House mates had chortled gleefully on the sideline, betting every time someone was pulled in on how much _damage_ the deranged siblings would do, and as inwardly disgusted as he was of both deeds, Blaise _had_ joined in on the betting every now and then; just to keep up appearances.

A lurch in the lower half of his stomach surged forward at the thought, suspiciously close to a sense of guilt, and guilt certainly wasn't a feeling that sat well with him.

He _could_ have prevented it somehow... intervened... Couldn't he?

_No_. He shook his head in stubborn emphasis. There was no way of stopping any of them without giving himself away. Reticence wasn't merely just a part of his nature; he had carefully cultivated it and made use of it throughout the years, and there was a reason he had guarded any outward lenience or doubt he may have held from _everyone_. He had seen upfront the down-spiral when people chose sides, so, indirectly, he had picked neither and thus ensured his own survival. That was what he had told himself. To come out, more or less, unscathed. And blameless, _guilt-free_, he had convinced himself as well.

Huh, _yeah_ _right_.

Still, he couldn't help wonder just _how much_ damage the Carrows in fact did to her during those 'sessions'; the beginning nausea in his stomach turning over as his imaginations unwittingly took a more graphic nature.

Scrambling, he bolted for the small toilet of the Prefects' Common Room and barely managed to reach the bowl before he forcefully ejected whatever little breakfast he had consumed into it. After a second, the retching changed into a particularly nasty spell of dry-heaving. He failed to recall the last time he actually vomited like this.

Panting heavily, he turned his cold-sweated brow from the toilet seat and settled next to it, leaning his head back against the wall.

No, he couldn't rightly imagine what had gone on in there with the Carrows, but, knowing them and knowing Snape wasn't always there to curb them, he feared the worst.

The new, unwelcome feelings of shame and guilt swamped him and he hunched over as if in pain, placing his arms on top of his bent knees, trying to settle his emptied stomach from another spell of dry-heaving.

As he slowly started to catch his breath and banish the unpleasant images, he stood shakily from his undignified position on the floor and went to the sink to freshen up.

Staring into the mirror, he no longer felt the vain stirrings of self-importance, but, perhaps for the first time, in full admittance to himself, only felt disgust with what he saw.

Tearing himself from it, he went back out, still a bit queasy from the effects and a grim taste in his mouth; his darn curiosity wanting an answer – to free itself from the constant speculation and guilt weighing on him.

He thought about asking her. About the...interrogations.

_No_. No, he couldn't do that. It just seemed too – too _personal_ to ask her about and give too much away about his own sudden interest in the matter. How was he supposed to explain _that_? And to her face even?

Maybe some of the others...

Huh. If only they were still around, that is.

He _could_ also get the information from his former Slytherin 'mates' (of the few that were left) who had made those distasteful wages in the first place. It was quite possible they got some intel on the matter since they had been so keen to get the details to win their bets.

It would be simple enough to get their mouths to run. He just had to ease into the matter through some random conversation and drop a cursory comment about it somewhere. Appear utterly flippant. _Yeah, that could work._

Of course, he could also just ask Theo who usually provided him with most of the intel and gossip of the school. However, never once had they talked about those particular instances. Like Draco, Theo had been strangely non-responsive when the rest of the group had howled with laughter as a struggling Longbottom was dragged in for the umpteenth by the slimy hands of Amycus Carrow and his heinous sister. Obviously, Blaise knew why. Well, with Draco, it became clear enough. And Theo? It must have reminded him of his own punishments at home. Every hex. Every beating. Every threat. Every foul word. And the fact that the little resistance group only got _more_ defiant with every punishment was likely a stark reminder of Theo's own shame and cowardice at the hand of his father's twisted mercy. He never talked about it – no more than a sneer here and there directed towards Nott Sr. – but he didn't have to. The fact that he _didn't_ talk told him everything.

It left Blaise to wonder how much Theo had _wanted_ to notice or hear concerning what actually happened in there with the Carrows. Whereas both he and Theo had _willingly_ joined in on the taunting of Potter and his little supporters the previous years, _that year_ had been different on so many levels, Blaise could hardly describe them. Mind you, it couldn't rightly be compared to what that fool-hearted fan club of Scarhead must have gone through, inside and outside the school.

He shuddered slightly, glad that the Carrows and the rest of the still-breathing lot were firmly under lock and key in that hellhole of Azkaban.

Rolling his shoulders, working out the cricks in his neck, he went on with the letter he had finally set out to write to his _Nonna_.

She was always anxious to hear from him and though correspondence by letter wasn't one of his favourite things in the world (he found platitudes as objectionable as they were inescapable), he had been brought up according to what upper-class wizard decorum prescribed and was not one to deny his grandmother her monthly updates. He couldn't outright _lie_ to her (well, he _never _could) when she all but pleaded for an insight in his emotional state time and time again, but couldn't rightly express himself either on that account. It ended up being an ambiguous mixture of the truth and whatever he could formulate that put her mind at ease.

He allowed himself a wistful smile at the thought of his _Nonna_ in Italy, with her fierce personality and stern kindness. Hazy memories that seemed so long gone reappeared behind his retina; unaltered feelings of admiration welling up in him, unable to help himself. It wasn't often he admitted it to himself, but he missed her, not to mention the dry, sunny heat of Lombardy; the grand, open splendours of the sandy-white buildings; the scattering of elegant, majestic cypresses and pines. To be able to inhale the fragrant, salty air and feel the calm winds against his cheeks once more, sparking a note of escapism from his dark rumination of the past and its daily reminders at Hogwarts. _To be free_, if just for a while. And to actually eat _proper_ food again (no disrespect to the food served at the school, but he honestly thought his taste buds had been numbed when he finally returned to Italy during vacations).

Yes, he missed it. So much sometimes, it was almost painful.

Of course, _certain elements_ were less missed than others.

His _Nonna_ had been the only one to bring any softness into his early life when his troublesome mother had toured cities and remarried again and again; breezing in and out of his life with one stranger after the other, leaving bodies behind in the same perfunctory way Draco discarded old brooms each new Quidditch season.

_Mother_.

He grumbled lowly, willing his suddenly gloomy, torn emotions away and quickly scribbled a couple of extra lines of white lies on the paper, folding it and headed towards the Owlery in the break between his early classes.

A clammy morning mist mixed with the rising sun gave the Scottish Highlands a peculiar cold-spiked warmth, both chilling and heating to the bones, as he trekked across the muddy path to the West Tower. Reaching it, he ducked his head as he quickly passed the two Aurors who stood guard outside of it. They shot him rigid, slitted stares as he did, but said nothing.

Taking the stairs two steps at the time, he came to the upper attic of the windswept tower; empty except for its winged inhabitants perched among the ceiling constructions or flying to and fro. He called for Sable and the rare black barn owl immediately descended from its post to land on his extended arm in a flutter of wings. Briefly nuzzling its feathered head in greeting, he fed it some snacks, attached the letter to its leg and went over to the large, unbarred window fazing south.

"It's going to be a long trip as usual, old friend, but you'll have the warmth of the destination to look forward to." _I wish I could go with you._

The owl hooted appreciatively in response, basking its wings in ready anticipation. The corner of his lips curved upwards and he was just about to extend his arm out the window when he heard quick, light footsteps on the stairs behind him.

Turning his head, he saw none other than the Weasley girl coming up the top of the stairs to the attic floor.

She immediately spotted his tall form standing by the window as well and stopped short, momentarily as stunned by his presence as he was by hers.

How was it possible that they constantly ran into each at the most random, inconvenient of times and in the most random of places?!

He had been so careful to avoid her in the first days following their last interaction, though sharing the same space could not be totally prevented during the meals in the Great Hall and the fact that they had a couple of classes and Prefect meetings together. She had been of the same mind, it seemed. Every time they'd been in the same room, they steered to the opposite ends of it and studiously ignored each other's presence, acting as if they were as indifferent towards each other as they had always been. Not entirely true, though, and especially not now. Luckily, their shared duty of Quidditch introduction to the First Years had been postponed until further notice given the rogue Dementor, so he had not to worry about that, at least. _That_ would have been awkward, indeed.

Though, _why_ he dodged her, he wasn't entirely sure. He could sense her desperate need to evade awkwardness as well, but that should only give him leverage and delight to make her squirm under his gaze if he cornered her at the right time and the right place, throwing the facts of her obvious attraction back in her face for everyone to see.

Shouldn't it?

It used to matter. Hell, it had been his daily fuel when it came to girls; the little power displays of taking and discarding as he pleased, not caring one bit, only to have them moaning and sighing in his presence, beguile them, tease them, drop them, pin them with his gaze, his–

Well, it had been a right thrill back then, he'd say that much. However, it seemed a lifetime ago; what he used to feel about those particular little dramas did not hold much thrill any longer.

And... all that – _all that_ faded in comparison to the intensity from the second their eyes met again; their last encounter ripped open and enfolding in blazing ripples between them. Like a punch in the gut; an all too empty stomach and all too beating heart. He felt his mouth go dry.

The pregnant silence that stretched in the rounded tower attic was only punctured by the soft hoots and flaps of wings above them.

Finally, she jarred her flustered face to the side and called out sharply "Achilles!" into the room, clearing her throat, and only then managed to tear her eyes from him. He blinked and watched in surprise as another barn owl, this one golden-white, flew down from above and landed on the girl's outstretched arm. She gave it a small smile and petted its feathers fondly, feeding it some nibbles she had brought with her. Briefly shooting Blaise a heedful look, she pressed her lips into a firm line and quietly set to attach her letter to the patient owl.

Blaise stood stock-still, staring at her concentrated mouth as he recalled just how close he had been that 'fatal' night to those gasping, questioning lips. So close. Breathing in her warm, sweet scent with undertones of grass and rain, of waxed broomsticks and worn leather that he distinctly coined with Quidditch. And something indecipherable _her_.

His stomach clenched. Registering the tumble of heat there, he vehemently tried to smother it as his eyes tracked her now wary approach to where he stood, both with owl on arm. Gulping, he took in her damp appearance as she drew nearer. The mist had turned her straight ginger hair dark-auburn, now clinging lightly to her face, drops of moist sliding down her freckled temples. The usually bright whiskey-colored eyes, he noted, had a queer dull shadow to them as they continued to dart him equally curious looks.

_I wonder why she is sad_, he found himself remarking before viciously clamping down on the thought and schooling his features, mortified by his sudden sappiness.

"Um... Hi," she said timidly, almost shyly (_the Weaslette? Shy!?_), placing herself at the other end of the south-fazed window opposite him.

"Hi." He stumbled briskly over the word before he could stop himself. _Hi. Hi?! Why can't I come up with something more intelligibly myself?_ He clenched his jaw in consternation.

Diverting her attention from him, she swallowed visibly and busied herself with stroking the back of her owl and gazing out the window to the scenery stretching before them.

For a moment, they both just watched the mist slowly evaporating from the landscape as the sun rose; their owls quietly moving about on their arms, hooting and flapping their wings in pleasure of being petted and fed every now and then. The sustained silence felt neither relaxing nor uncomfortable and before Blaise had settled on an emotion, Ginny's hesitant, yet curious voice broke the silence.

"What's her name?"

His gaze flashed back to her, seeing her gesturing to his owl. _How could she know it was a she?_

"Er, Sable," he answered dumbly and was ready to smack himself for sounding so moronic.

Ginny didn't seem to notice his internal scolding however; she had her eyes trained on the bird perched on his lean arm, a small smile softening her features.

"She's beautiful."

Her eyes took the briefest of dips down to the letter attached to Sable, so brief he was unsure whether he'd seen it – _and_ the odd shift in them – or not.

He followed her gaze and readily agreed, finding himself returning the sentiment in earnest. "So is yours."

Her smile grew slightly wider as her eyes turned back to the owl on her arm. "Yes, he is, isn't he?" she replied with fondness in her voice, lightly stroking the bushy trail of white feathers between its eyes. Another cooing hoot evoked a low titter from her.

His eyes inevitably drew from her down-turned face to the letter attached to the owl's leg. He caught the name on it and pointedly looked away again.

It wasn't his business who she was writing to, and why did it matter anyhow? It wasn't like it was going to answer the roaming questions in his head about the Carrows. She probably just missed her brother, that's all. Wanted to know how he was doing. It didn't have to have anything to do with the sombre expression in her eyes. Whatever she wrote to him; confided to him, it was private.

It wasn't his business.

Then why was this pressing and pulling sensation against his breast dangerously close to what one would call a shred of _concern_?

Swallowing thickly, he felt the urgent need to bolt and unconsciously shifted his feet, catching her attention with a puzzled frown on her face.

_Bugger._ He didn't _fidget_. She had noticed something was off.

He needed to get out of there.

"Um, I better get back. Prefect duties and all this shite, you know?" he inelegantly excused himself with a gruff voice, giving his owl one last pat and impatiently motioned for it fly. It did so with a hoot; soaring out through the window and into the morning air, but he didn't stick around to watch it go. He had already spun on his heels and stalked across the attic before Ginny had managed to fully register his departure, quickly scurrying down the flight of stairs and tried to ignore the two Aurors staring holes in the back of his head as he trudged resolutely back towards the castle.

With each hard step on the muddied ground and ragged rock, he tried to stomp down each feeling and thought connected to the redhead in the tower behind him, and with each hard step, every feeling and thought seemed only magnified, eluding him even further.

It was pointless.

_Utterly pointless._


	21. A day off

The end of January arrived sooner than expected.

Despite Quidditch being cancelled for the time being, school and Head Girl duties seemed to have been multiplied in return; both with the midterm exams and the number of students who had to be managed and guided by Prefects or Aurors when moving about the school grounds.

Ginny now had her hands full of younger students who were either too scared to venture out to the greenhouses for their Herbology lessons, or some who were all too lax about the risk of running into the rogue Dementor when going to Hogsmeade. After one of the visits to the latter, two First Year boys had even come up to her and claimed they'd spotted two of the Dark Wizards on the most wanted list that the Ministry had issued after the war. When Ginny had raised a both concerned and sceptical eyebrow and poked some more into their statement, it turned out that the two boys hadn't been able to clearly see their faces, since these presumably 'Dark Wizards' had been standing in the shadows between a couple of cottages when the boys had passed by in a hurry to get to Honeydukes. The fact that they hadn't reported their suspicions right away to the accompanying Auror either confirmed her suspicions that the boys most likely just had an overactive imagination; fuelled by the 'excitement' of having all the Aurors around and a Dementor on the loose.

Shaking her head in slight frustration of their ignorance (_This wasn't a bloody game!_), yet knowing that they were also just kids, she suddenly felt very old and seasoned. Most of her energy these days was spent reassuring one part of the students and reprimanding another, meanwhile getting odd, scrutinizing looks from the Aurors whenever they were nearby.

Frankly, the latter was starting to get on her nerves.

She hadn't been in much contact with Zabini, none direct at least, though, every now and then, her otherwise occupied mind strayed to their last befuddling encounter in the Owlery.

She had contemplated on the letter he had sent that day and the Italian-sounding name she had seen written on it, wondering if he was writing to the grandmother he had once mentioned in passing. (Though, it really was none of her business, was it now?). His slightly flustered, sleep-deprived appearance that morning had taken her by surprise, and she had felt anxious to be in his proximity again ever since the night of the party. From the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he stared at her, it seemed he remembered it as well. And then, he had just left. _Hurried_ away, actually.

Not that she could blame him, could she?

She sighed, presently battling a stack of Potions' books and winter ropes in her arms, forgotten by some First Years in the library, and dumped them in the Lost & Found box by the library entrance. Making her way down the corridor towards the stairs, she berated herself for procrastinating her own homework, considering how little time she actually had to get it done by tonight.

So, once again, she would burn the midnight oil. Either that or it would end up being some very-last-minute preparations before class in the morning.

_Oh, joy_.

"Ah, Miss Weasley, there you are."

She blinked as she spotted the Headmistress coming up the stairs ahead and walking towards her in a billow of charcoal-coloured ropes.

Then, a couple of steps behind her, a tall, familiar, dark head materialized.

Ginny swallowed; recent images flitted across her retina and she felt heat rising in her cheeks.

Judging from Zabini's immediate bearing, he didn't seem particularly eager to be in present company either, looking both _politely_ begrudging and blasé as he came to a halt with the Headmistress in front of her.

"How fortunate," the elder witch greeted her. "As it so happened, I was just on my way to find you both when I encountered Mr. Zabini here." Blaise's mouth pulled into a stiff scowl behind McGonagall while the latter, oblivious of this, continued conversationally, "Mr. Attwater told me you were clearing up the library?"

The name of the Head Boy made Ginny tear her eyes away from the Italian and back to the Headmistress' face, giving her a silent nod in return.

"Well then." McGonagall stepped back, turning away from the small talk as her grey gaze regarded both of them with her usual directness. "To the matter at hand, I'm here to let you both know that Mr. Rowe and I have decided to arrange for the Head Boy and Girl as well as the Seventh Year Prefects to have your own day off in Hogsmeade. _Without_ the younger students accompanying you. And you will be allowed to invite one friend each to bring along."

Ginny's brow rose in mild surprise. Well, that was unexpected. But honestly, it sounded rather nice to have a day off and not having the responsibility of looking out for everyone else, for once.

"However," McGonagall proceeded, "you _will_ be accompanied by a couple of Aurors as well, of course. For safety precautions."

Shooting an apprehensive glance at the wizard beside her, Ginny noticed how Zabini's mask had tightened significantly. Catching the direction of her gaze, McGonagall observed their interaction curiously but refrained from commenting on it and instead asked, "So, who would you like to invite?"

"Nott."

Both witches turned their heads towards the Italian at his straight-forward, quick reply. A little _too_ quick, Ginny thought and narrowed her eyes at him.

"Pardon?" McGonagall blinked, having likely misunderstood his answer.

Blaise didn't bat an eyelid, his impassive expression only undercut by his ticking jaw. "I'll bring Theodore Nott."

"Ah. I see." The elder witch regarded him for a second longer before giving him a nod of acceptance, "Of course, you may." She then turned towards Ginny, "And you, Miss Weasley?"

"Erm..."

Ginny had no clue who she was going to invite and instinctively thought of all the people who _weren't_ there: Luna, Neville, Dean, Seamus. She couldn't even count on Hermione to be available or even at school, given her busy schedule. And though Ginny had momentarily regained her fondness for Parvati during the last couple of weeks, she really hadn't bonded that much with the twin for them to become bosom friends all of a sudden. In so many ways, they felt miles apart.

So... _who_ then?

She threw the Italian another uncertain look but was once again only able to get a cursory, unreadable glance from him before he studiously looked away.

_Hmph. Thanks a lot for ditching me, Zabini._

"Well?" McGonagall had lifted a single slim, grey eyebrow, awaiting her answer.

"I, er, think I'll just go by myself."

The elder witch's eyebrow rose higher as Ginny tried mustering a convincing smile. From the corner of her eye, she felt Blaise observing her surreptitiously through his bored visage.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Miss Weasley," McGonagall spoke in somewhat regret. "Even _with_ supervision, you must be paired off with another student in case something happens and the Auror is not with you or able to reach you in time. Going alone isn't an option, given the precarious situation. You do understand, don't you?"

Ginny opened and closed her mouth, before finally replying. "Ah, um.. yes, of course."

Surveying her for a couple of beats longer, McGonagall's eyes lost some of their edge.

"We have still to complete the list of attendants for the trip, but I'm sure we'll find you a companion among them. Or you can go with another pair," she clarified, reminiscent of the same almost maternal concern she had displayed as Head of Gryffindor. She wasn't about to abandon one of lion cubs to an uncertain fate. Ginny's heart warmed at the notion.

"Yes, thank you, Headmistress."

McGonagall gave a curt nod, addressing them both again. "Alright. Well, I hope you don't have any plans for this weekend since we plan on making the trip this Saturday?"

The response was in the negative. Unenthusiastically so. Despite her workload, Ginny realized she had nothing on her schedule that was even remotely close to _fun_.

Gauging Zabini's response, she was quietly surprised by his head giving a stiff, disinclined shake.

Of all the people on the school, the Italian _surely_ would have a pretty decent social life. If not here in Great Britain, then some exotic, fancy place with all his rich, snobbish friends whom he must just _long_ to return to.

But then again; perhaps not?

Perhaps the rumours _were_ exaggerated.

But then why not just lie and say he _did_ have plans for the weekend, so that he could escape the enforced company?

Why hadn't _she_?

_Darn!_ She couldn't very well back down now. Not in front of McGonagall and definitely not Zabini. He would just see right through the lie and take the opportunity to gloat, and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"That's settled then." McGonagall dipped her pointy chin towards them. "If you'll come to the entrance by the Great Hall the day after tomorrow at one o'clock, you'll meet your accompanying Auror and get further instructions there."

There was a beat of awaiting silence, seemingly concluding McGonagall's briefing.

"Right. I'm off then," Blaise broke through in a terse voice, pivoting on his heel and stalked off in the direction he came from. McGonagall cast another contemplative look over the top of her glasses after the young man who disappeared around the corner before turning to Ginny again.

"I'll not take up any more of your time, then. A pleasant afternoon to you, Miss Weasley." Another brisk smile and then the Scotswoman was off too, billowing ropes and all.

Ginny stared down the corridor, slightly bereft. Unsure how to feel about the trip, she slowly started off towards her quarters, making a mental note to herself to set the alarm and not sleep in as she usually did on Saturdays.

Well, one had to look at the bright side of things, she thought drolly: At least _now_ she had something else to partake in other than the mountain of homework she had to get done by the end of the weekend.

**X**

Zabini had already arrived, leaning stoically against the wall by the Great Hall, when Ginny turned up Saturday morning along with Clarence Attwater, the Head Boy, and the rest of the Prefects and their plus-ones.

The former Slytherin didn't look directly at her, merely inclined his head as she approached, more acquiescent than chagrined about present arrangements.

She glanced around him.

"Where's Nott?"

His strong-lined face turned surly. "Couldn't make it."

"Oh."

"Yes. Highly _convenient_ of him. As usual," he muttered wryly, shifting his gaze towards her. "Looks like he's not the only one."

She shrugged, looking over the crowd of Prefects. "I hoped someone else would be without companion today..."

"Attwater not up for it? Interesting," he drawled. "Thought he'd just _jump_ at the chance."

She shot him a glare.

"Good, you are all here!" McGonagall drew their attention, coming towards the group alongside (_sigh_) an ever gloomy-looking Rowe and his group of selected Aurors. "Pair up and Mr. Rowe and I will assign you each an Auror who will accompany you on your trip."

The group did as told – all except Blaise and Ginny who were still standing, listlessly, by the wall.

"Mr. Zabini! Miss Weasley!" the Headmistress spotted them from the sideline as Rowe introduced the Aurors to the first couple of students. "Have you no companions this day? Well, then pair up with each other and come along. No dawdling!"

They looked resignedly at each other, realizing there was no other alternative since they were only two left without a partner, and then slowly moved towards the line-up. Ginny remarked how the Prefects seemed to face the arrangement with varied moods; some taking it very seriously, while others looked perturbed by the idea of being tailed by the Aurors (or 'baby-sat' as she overheard someone whisper). Yet, the overall atmosphere soon turned animated. After all, like Ginny, most Seventh Year Prefects had had little time off for themselves – if none at all – during the latest Hogsmeade visits. No wonder, they were excited to jump at a chance such as this.

"Ah. Miss Weasley. Mr. Zabini."

A frosty voice knocked her out of her musings and she looked up to see the Head Auror had reached her and Blaise, while the Headmistress remained occupied with another pair and, rather conveniently, out of earshot.

"I must say I'm a little surprised to see you here today," Rowe droned silkily, wringing a sardonic expression from his stony features. "One would have suspected the thought of this little excursion to Hogsmeade, of all places, would have made you...how to put it? Queasy? Going all by yourselves, given _recent events_?"

Ginny blistered under his scrutiny_. Honestly, the nerve of this man! _Did he really think they'd just combust somewhere along the way and fess up if he stared intensely at them long enough?

"Well, obviously, _Sir_, we are _not_ going to be by ourselves, are we now?" She gestured to the Aurors and managed to send him a tight smile.

Rowe returned it with a condescending mien as if having expected her reply and pretending to be amused by it. "Right you are. After all, this trip _was_ made just for you."

Before Ginny could form a response to his enigmatic comment, McGonagall had reached them.

"Miss Weasley, Mr. Zabini," she greeted them, pleasantly absent of the same rigid mistrust that simmered off the Head Auror on her left. "Well met. Tell me, have your original companions abandoned you?" she jested good-humouredly.

"Er, it seems–" Ginny started but Blaise intercepted her, his eyes doing a subtle, upwards roll, likely meant just for her and she blistered silently.

"Unfortunately, Nott is otherwise occupied with schoolwork this day, Ma'am," he replied smoothly. "Weasley here was just telling me that Granger too is engaged, what with her _important _Ministry duties." Ginny snapped her head up at his two-faced cheek, covered in a deceptively courteous tone. "They both wish they could come and send their regards, of course."

_How _did he do it? It was positively infuriating how he could come off so arrogant and still somehow get away with it!

McGonagall simply gave an understanding nod. "Well then, I hope you are not opposed to the idea of partnering up today. We have no spare participants and a busy schedule, so if you wouldn't mind?"

"Um, of course not, Headmistress," Ginny lied unconvincingly as Blaise drolly echoed her response. The Head Auror, in turn, had his flinty eyes narrowed in on the latter.

"Either way, I'll leave an Auror in your presence," Rowe interjected stiffly, blatantly disinterested in the minor details of who came with whom. Ginny heard Blaise emit a quiet huff and she could only agree. McGonagall shot them a look of silent reproof from the sideline, while the Head Auror, unaware of their little exchange, gestured to his companion a couple of feet behind him whom Ginny only first now spotted. Had she been standing there the entire time?

"This is Sulaima Warwick; a most able, trusted officer on my team. Anything the matter, you can call on her."

The Auror, a handsome black woman in her late 20s-early 30s, stepped forward, giving them a curt nod, her fierce face remaining inexpressive during the introduction. Her long, raven hair consisted of a large assortment of smaller braids; some of them loosely fixed at the back of her head to keep them out of her face and otherwise flowed down her back and partly across her shoulders. In her dark, severe Auror attire and with her lips painted a deep shade of lilac, a piercing running through the uppermost bridge of her nose, as well as a smattering of carefully selected jewelry in her ears and around her clothed neck, she appeared both impressive and intimidating. Even the regal Blaise seemed to shrink an inch compared to her fearsome countenance.

After a beat of looking between the newly presented parties with his usual, perusing gaze, Rowe seemed satisfied with the first impressions (if his levelled looks were anything to go by).

"Right. I'll leave you in the capable hands of Warwick. Warwick," he addressed the Auror, "A moment?"

The woman dipped her chin as the Head Auror leaned in, most likely to mumble a couple of instructions. Still, Ginny didn't care to think what 'preconceptions' Rowe could have potentially unloaded on his officer about them prior to the trip. Of course, professional as they were, they gave nothing away of the subject from their short exchange and merely drew back, inclining their heads to each other in wordless affirmation after which Rowe briskly bid them good day and moved on to the next couple alongside McGonagall.

The Auror pivoted her steely gaze back to Ginny and Blaise, taking her time to study their characters once more.

What was it with Aurors and making you squirm just by looking at you? Was it part of the job description?

"So. Where do you plan to go first?"

The question was stated blankly but accompanied by the distinctive bouncing lilt of a Jamaican Creole accent, making both students temporarily transfixed. Somehow they had not expected _that _and yet, it only made her overall impression all the more striking.

"Well?" The Auror arched a sculpted eyebrow (rivaling those of Blaise's).

"Um, well," Ginny looked towards Blaise who blinked a couple of times. The Auror shot them a vaguely incredulous look, having likely expected more readiness from them.

"Alright. How about you decide as you go along? I'll let you walk as madly as you want within the limits of the village, but _only_ _within_. Do _not_ venture outside of the grounds without my accompanying you. Do you understand me?"

They both instinctively nodded, exchanging a brief glance, hardly daring to imagine what punishment would be in store for them, if they didn't adhere to her instructions.

"Good. I'll give you 'till four o'clock– "

_Four o'clock?_ Ginny silently lamented. _But that only gives us _one_ hour! _She couldn't possible manage to do _all_ that she wanted in Hogsmeade in merely one hour!

"– and meanwhile," the Auror continued in her no-nonsense style, "I will be at The Three Broomsticks, waiting for you. If there should be anything, send up a Periculum to alert me or, more conveniently, send your Patronuses. I presume you both know how to conjure the Patronus charm?"

"Yes," Blaise replied blankly, and Ginny simply nodded.

"Right," Warwick established. "What are their corporeal forms, so that I might recognize them?"

"Um, mine is a horse," Ginny stumbled somewhat at the Auror's directness.

"Panther," the Italian answered, a note of smug pride lingering in his voice.

Warwick assessed them briefly then gave an affirmative nod. "Good. Let's get going then."

They started following the rest of the group who had begun moving, making their way out the front doors of the castle and into the biting February wind. The students distracted themselves with mindless chit-chat while the Aurors (minus McGonagall and Rowe who'd stayed behind) spread out to form a vigilant, outer perimeter alongside the couples. Around them the mountainous landscape rose grey and barren from the sweeping wind, and Ginny shuddered, despite her extra layers of woolly jumpers. It wasn't long before the Scottish winter cold had seeped through every limp and bone and she honestly couldn't wait 'till they reached the village and get her hands on her favourite hot cocoa. At this point, their little short-cut beneath the Whomping Willow sounded awfully tempting.

_Wait a second._ '_Their_' little short-cut?! She gave an internal snort. There was nothing 'their'. Never was.

She sent a sideways glance up at the stoic Italian walking beside her. He hadn't said a word since they left the castle and despite his well-guarded appearance, he didn't seem entirely _un_affected by the cold; a slight crease of bored displeasure marring his broad brow as he grimaced against the wind, dressed in his expensively tailored wool coat and new blue-and-bronze House scarf.

Besides, she thought, promptly diverting her attention and eyed the intimidating Auror on their far right, Warwick would never go along with such an idea. And how would it look if the two students who ran into the Dementor in the first place – and who weren't totally free of suspicion yet – returned to 'the scene of crime'?

She left the rhetorical question hanging there and hugged herself tightly against the cold.

After half an hour walking in studious silence, apart from the howling wind and chattering students, they finally came upon the path leading directly to Hogsmeade. Once again, the familiar sight of the small clutter of houses, with smoke blowing from the chimneys, made Ginny sigh in quiet relief.

Reaching the first cottage, the other students soon scattered along with their Aurors to their predetermined destinations, leaving only Ginny, Blaise and Warwick standing behind. The few, sleepy villagers who happened to be out and about as the group had arrived understandably looked apprehensive and hurried onwards at the sight of the black-clad Aurors coming towards them.

Warwick took a step forward, her vigilant attitude no less diminished since they left the school as she surreptitiously swept her gaze among the cottages before it landed back on Ginny and Blaise.

"Remember: I'll be at The Three Broomsticks while you shop. If anything's the matter, send me your Patronus. We'll meet by the inn at four o'clock, okay?"

They nodded and watched the Auror depart in firm strides, her long hairdo swaying down her back, successfully warning off anyone to come too close.

When she had disappeared, Zabini let out a loud sigh.

"Right. You heard the woman: Do what you need to do. I'm off."

"_What_?" Ginny gaped at his already moving form. "You can't just _go_, Zabini! We're not supposed to walk around on our own!" She jogged up to him, his long legs giving him the advantage, tugging at his woollen sleeve. He stopped and looked down with a slight sneer to her hand gripping the material and back up at her face. Then he slowly turned towards her.

"Listen, Weasley. None of us –" he gestured between them "– particularly wants to be here with one another, nor wants to be dragged along the other's _tedious_ shopping sprees." She made a wry face at the underlying dig at _her_ shopping habits when he was vanity itself. "Besides," he continued as if he was already bored by the conversation, "I think we're perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves, so I'll suggest we go our separate ways until the clock strikes four and then meet up at Rosmerta's as if we've been together all along. Hm?"

He proposed the deal as if she would be utterly stupid to choose otherwise, barely even looking at her but instead eyed their surroundings with a disinterested, overbearing mien that set her teeth on edge.

_Honestly, his audacity...!_

"Nope."

His aloof gaze slid back to meet hers, one eyebrow raised. "Excuse me?"

"I said 'nope', Zabini – or are your aristocratic ears having a day off as well?"

His eyes narrowed. "Don't give me that, Weaslette," he grumbled, losing some of his blasé demeanour. "We both know we are on the same page on this."

"Actually, _no_, Zabini, we aren't," she rebutted and saw a flash of annoyance in his slate eyes. He really _was _eager to get rid of her. "No matter our personal dislikes for each other, I am still the Head Girl and you are still a Prefect and it's our job to abide the rules and not do anything foolish. We've _tried_ your 'clever' suggestions before and it didn't work out so terribly well, did it now?"

He looked away, his jaw clenched in repressed ire, sparking a similar reaction within her. But it was doing them no favours at the moment. With a heavy sigh, she decided to speak to his rationale instead.

"And think about it: How would it look if you were spotted by or stumbled across one of the _several_ Aurors currently traipsing the area? _Alone_?"

His expression hardened. "What? Because being on my own in Hogsmeade is so highly conspicuous?"

She pursed her lips. "Do you really think Rowe sends so many of his Aurors to accompany us _just_ to ward off _one_ rogue Dementor which _could_ roam in the area?" came the flat reply.

Staring back at her, statuesque features momentarily stunned, he blinked once and his poker face slipped back in place.

"_Fine_," he bit out and stuffed his hands down his coat pockets, gaze directed demonstratively ahead of him. "Lead the way."

The corner of her mouth twitched. _This_ was the very same, stately, self-preserved Italian who – for as long as she could remember – had come off more mature than all the other students from his year...!

But, wisely, she didn't comment on it and simply started off in the direction of Honeydukes. The hot cocoa had to wait a little while. She had no inclination to go to The Three Broomsticks at the moment, for one particular reason in the shape of a daunting Auror, so Chocolate Cauldrons would have to do. Unconsciously, she licked her lips at the prospect of that sweet fire melting on her tongue, and Blaise must have caught the action out of the corner of his eye.

"Honeydukes, I presume?" he drawled, amused, followed by his nose wrinkling in distaste, "Unless you have some clandestine meeting with a secret, ugly boyfriend of yours in the village and you're thinking of snogging him, because in _that_ case I'm truly off. Likely getting reacquainted with my lunch."

Rolling her eyes, she turned the tables on him and threw him a falsely sweet smile, batting her eyelashes, "Why yes, my dear sir, it so happens you are correct."

She received an eye-roll in return just as they reached the sweets' shop and walked inside the always boisterous place.

While ending up choosing several candies for herself and for future birthday presents (not knowing when she would be allowed back to Hogsmeade anytime soon and do her own shopping again), Blaise, instead, settled for a single package of Licorice Snaps – to which she dryly remarked that if he kept that up he'd end up getting 100 House points for Most Predictable Ex-Slytherin by the end of the school year. His response was to merely let his gaze rake the content in her arms and then calmly state that since he was a gentlemen he would refrain from giving his exact guess to what her title by the end of the year would be, but that he would be _most_ surprised if she was named Quidditch Player of the Year, given the scope of her sweet tooth. The fact that she had made it _this_ far and the broom hadn't yielded beneath her was indeed a mystery to him.

With a small, triumphant smirk, he then proceeded to buy his candy and exit the shop, leaving her gaping unattractively in the middle of Honeydukes, arms full of still unpurchased sweets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, their little trip to Hogsmeade isn't over yet, folks ;)
> 
> Oh, and by the way, I've based my inspiration for Auror Sulaima Warwick on two amazing art pieces by [Maaria Laurinen](https://maariamph.tumblr.com/post/83023153991) and [Elies Indigne](https://eliesindigne.tumblr.com/post/115023052881/two-guild-wars-2-portraits-of-my-norn-characters), respectively:  



	22. The scatter of rodents

Blaise uttered a low chuckle as he stepped outside the shop and into the spiky winter cold.

That girl sure could make a hilarious face if she was coaxed far enough!

He snorted and watched as the weather turned his warm breath into white puffs of steam, evaporating into the air.

_Typical_ Gryffindors.

Not bothering to wait around or holding up to their agreement about not wandering off by themselves, he began strolling down the winding village street, taking his time glancing at the various shop windows and snug cottages that he passed, but most of all enjoying a quiet moment alone. Just for a while, without untimely interruptions from pretty little redheads.

Actually, at the moment, he didn't risk interruptions from _anyone,_ since the street was entirely abandoned. The untimely arrival of the Aurors had likely something to do with it; not that he blamed the villagers for wanting to stay away and not getting involved. Merlin knew they'd had enough of black-clad groups of authority invading their privacy and monitoring their every move already.

Amidst his musings, a lone figure passed his peripheral vision between a couple of houses further down the road and his head jerked towards it just as it disappeared, brows furrowed. Wasn't that–

For a second there he was almost certain he recognised the dark mob of hair on his only friend left from his former house; Nott's tall, lanky build and distinct way of walking, deep in thought and shoulders slightly hunched while he scurried away as if he couldn't get out of Hogsmeade fast enough–

Before the ludicrous idea could come to fruition, a noise in the background on Blaise's left, followed by a distinctive curse, drew his attention and made him stop up, curious to the nature of the ruckus and the _very_ Slytherin choice of swearing. Heedfully, he retraced his steps to one of the dark, little blind alleys he had passed seconds ago and gawked around the corner.

Someone – a man – was standing in the shadows, stooping over something on the ground which apparently was of high value to the person who whined and lamented over the accident under his breath. Whatever glamour spell the man had put on himself, it was obviously a poor one as the non-determinable clothes he had worn a second ago suddenly gave way for a visibly tatty and ill-fitting outfit.

The man fidgeted around in chagrin and his face caught the low afternoon sun.

_Rat-faced, willowy, sickly-looking..._ Blaise narrowed his eyes_. __Wait a second–_

He _knew_ that guy.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Dorne?" Blaise snarled lowly, wand ready at his side as he drew himself into his full height and stepped into the closed alley.

Taken by surprise, the man – Dorne – scrambled to pick up whatever object he had dropped on the ground and hide it, before he sprung around and scooted further back into the darkness.

Icily watching the skittish figure before him, Blaise continued, "Thought you'd taken your ratty tail between your legs and skipped the country long ago?"

Stammering under his breath, Dorne's bulging, bloodshot eyes eyed Blaise and then his wand warily. "H-how–how did you– ?"

"Recognize you?" Blaise finished, contempt dripping from his voice. "I have eyes. And ears. Even foul, lowlife little rodents like you get notorious when you have mixed with the wrong crowd and then decide to bail." The rat-faced man looked down at himself as he only just then realized the glamour had lifted. Blaise smiled darkly. "There's a warrant for your head, you know."

Though it really was for his arrest alone, Dorne, nonetheless, gave a minor shudder at the thinly-veiled threat; his large eyes shifting nervously around in his pinched face, indeed like an animal trapped. Then they suddenly spun back to a halt, narrowing into slits as they travelled up and down Blaise's persona. Perhaps recognizing aristocracy when he saw it – after so many years of kissing Pureblood arse – his thin, grim mouth twisted ever so slightly and his entire bearing seemed to change.

_Ah, here comes the sycophant, crawling back from his hole in the ground_, Blaise thought acerbically. _Probably deciding whether to sweet-talk or bribe me into letting him go. Likely both. As if we are _actually_ like-minded beings!_ He gave a harsh internal scoff.

"Why, M-Master Zabini! I-I thought it was you!" The man fawned in a sickening manner, all but kneeling on one bony knee in dirty ground in front of him. Blaise's upper lip curled in disgust.

"Forget it, Dorne," he spat, causing the face on the man to fall considerably at the prospect of a possible exit to his dire situation vanishing into the thin air. "You'll not get out of this one, I assure you." Eyeing the seedy man like he was a piece of mud on his new Italian shoes, Blaise felt more than ready to deliver him to the authorities and not spend another minute in his presence.

Still, he was somewhat curious why Dorne would risk his life to come back. And why choose Hogsmeade of all places, on the very day it was swarming with Aurors? Could it just be an unlucky coincidence? On top of his poor state of being and even poorer magical skills, the ex-Snatcher seemed rather unqualified for any covert operations he might have sniffed out. Or been so stupid to join. And even a _hypothetical_, second uprising this early seemed unlikely, what with most Death Eaters jailed or gone. Blaise was confident the ratty man could barely find enough lackeys or brains to come up with something serious himself. Looking the guy over, he seemed as if he was ready to combust from bad nerves alone or actually turn into a rodent any time soon and be squashed under someone's boot. Not that anyone would miss him, for sure. However, he would be a fool to underestimate the ex-minion. Dorne wasn't entirely _harmless_ either.

And what was more interesting: What was the mysterious object he had dropped on the ground? What could be so valuable about it? Perhaps a Dark Artefact of sorts, given the hands they were in–?

"_Zabini_!" Blaise flinched and cursed under his breath at the interruption as the owner of an indignant, familiar female voice came stalking up behind him. "You two-faced snake! I swear to you, I'll hex your b–"

Ginny stopped dead in her tracks as she took in the two unlikely, tense figures facing off in the alley.

"What the–?" she started, just in time for Dorne to seize the moment of diversion, muttering a short, smug "My cue" and Disapparating with a _pop_ before Blaise could intercept.

The Italian swore loudly, hands flexing into fists at his side. Clearly he _had_ underestimated Dorne's magical abilities. _Fuck's sake!_

Stepping closer, Ginny looked bewildered, "Who was _that_?"

Blaise sneered towards the spot where the man had been standing just seconds ago. "Tholbus Dorne."

"_Who_?"

"Former Snatcher of Scabior's." His lip curled. "I recall seeing him creeping around the castle whenever the Carrows were around. Quite the little sycophant back then. Got away some time during The Battle or before, I suspect." What the bloody hell would he come back for? Blaise wondered again, regarding the empty spot. Or rather: _Who_ would he come back for?

"I don't remember seeing him around the school," Weasley observed with a nonplussed frown. "Was he one of the more high-ranking Snatchers? Didn't _look_ like much."

Emitting a heavy sigh, he turned halfway towards her. "I don't think Snatchers did much in ranks, besides their one or two leaders, including Scabior. They were all basically minions. Brains weren't really their specialty," he spoke scathingly, still irked that 'Rat-face' got away and blaming the redhead for his own distraction.

The girl's lips pursed as she registered his noncommittal mood and folded her arms across her chest.

"Look," she started in a clipped tone, "I am sorry to have interrupted your little Snatch-a-Snatcher-adventure here, but, _clearly_, it wasn't _my_ fault he got away. If you had just been a little quicker you could have had him right where you wanted him by now! And it was obvious that you hadn't just stumbled into him when I got here. Why didn't you seize him sooner, instead of standing around chit-chatting about 'the good old Death Eater-days', if I may ask?"

Grumbling under his breath, he promptly ignored her and pushed past her to exit the alley.

"Hey!"

_Drat. _Did this blasted girl ever take a hint?

Keeping up with his long strides, Weasley soon fell in beside him, shooting him slighted glares from the sideline every now and then. Decisively ignoring her, he thrust his hands down his pockets and did nothing to slow his pace.

After a while of walking in strained silence, they soon came to the outskirts of Hogsmeade, near the road leading to Hogwarts, though they hardly registered it as they went on, deep in thought.

"Hey, do you–," she commenced in a lower voice, and he could practically hear the gears turning in that pretty little, if annoyingly distracting, head of hers, "Do you think Dorne's return could have something to do with the appearance of the Dementor?"

A stillness came and went across the muscles of his broad shoulders and he peered down at her briefly, then looked pointedly ahead again. "Don't know," he murmured. "Perhaps."

In the silence that followed, he couldn't help chewing it over in his head. The girl wasn't completely off with that theory. It did seem almost _too_ coincidental that a Dementor _and_ an ex-Snatcher appeared within the same radius of the school so shortly after one another.

There was something brewing in the air and he didn't like the smell of it.

"You know we're going to report this to McGonagall and the Aurors, don't you?" her voice piped up after a moment or so.

"Are we now?" he drawled as he kept on walking, a bitter taste forming in his mouth.

"Don't give me that crap, Zabini," she retorted, "Of course, we are! And you are a Prefect now. It's your duty."

Something inside him snapped and he turned on her, eyes flashing, which brought her to an immediate halt.

"And after that owlshit interrogation last time, do you _really_ think they're not going to cross-examine me – us_ both!_ – again? Should I simply keep explaining that I _just happened_ to come across that little scenario back there and hope they'll take pity on me and let me go?" He glowered down at her for a beat, daring her to respond. "_Oh, no_, they won't suspect me _one bit_!" He scoffed darkly and turned to walk on, finishing off bitterly, "No more than they already do."

Momentarily frozen in her spot, she blinked, perhaps seeing reason within his justified anger. Then she stalked up beside him.

"Okay! Alright! I get it! It _does_ look highly suspicious," she acquiesced tersely. He shot her a sideways glare that vehemently spoke _'you are not helping'_ and she pushed her lips into a thin line, rolling her eyes in mild impatience. "I just mean; of course, they are going to be suspicious for as long as that Dementor is on the loose. Hearing of a wanted ex-Snatcher returning _as well_ so soon after the war is not exactly going to make that suspicion simmer down any time soon."

Repressing an eye-roll, Blaise huffed, "Preaching to the choir, luv," and received another irritated glare from the redhead.

"_But_, _with that said_," she continued between gritted teeth, "I still think they are going to believe us if we simply tell them the truth: That you happened to spot him and tried to capture him."

"Ah, so you think they're going to be _impressed_ and call me a 'hero' next, because I wanted and attempted to catch an ex-Snatcher?" he jeered, stopping short and threw her a look of condescending incredulity. "For some reason, I don't think they'll give much credit to the 'presumably righteous motives' of someone like me."

"What, because you are a former, self-serving Slytherin and thus cannot be trusted?" she wryly countered, causing him to meet her meaningful look with a pair of raised eyebrows.

Sighing, defeated, the Italian ran a hand across his short-trimmed, black hair. "It certainly doesn't help in situations like these," he admitted.

He had always taken pride in being a Slytherin – despite everything. Like some of his former, more uneasy and frightened House mates during Voldemort's terrorization, he had played along in order to survive, but, in his mind, started to draw a distinguishing line between his House and the _true_ followers of Voldemort. A forceful compartmentalization, you could say. Still, the House name of Slytherin now seemed forever tainted; tattooed on his back – along with its naturally suspicion-inducing disposition – wherever he went. Nothing like Draco's Dark Mark, of course, but still...

Supposed he deserved it.

He let out a cold, humourless laugh as the fatalistic feelings once again overtook him. "And don't forget the most important part: I am also 'a close acquaintance of a certain Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater and son of one of the closest allies of You-Know-Who'," mirroring the words Rowe had spoken in McGonagall's office.

Ginny eyed him in the wake of his solemn words, worrying her lip in comprehensive silence. Tentatively, she moved a hand to his forearm, feeling the prickly warmth of his wool coat and the rigid muscles beneath it. For a second, the sensation sharpened her senses to his close proximity in the biting, empty cold around them. With a shiver, she bit her lip harder before letting it go and took in a deep breath.

"And I'll say this once again, Blaise: I will do anything in my power to make them understand that it was all just a coincidence. That you had _nothing_ to do with those incidents. And that we were _both_ to blame for losing that Dorne guy."

His eyes cut to hers at her sincere tone. He took in her face, folded in those usually well-hid melancholy features he had only been given the chance to witness a few couple of times, combined with a shaky bravado that somehow had taken hold in his mind.

_That_ and the way her lower lip was currently trapped under her front teeth, bringing him back to that day before the Holidays in the Prefects' Bathroom when the shitstorm hit him and he momentarily lost his mind and kissed her and–

Oh_,_ _fuck it_!

Adam's apple bobbing, he started to turn towards her, an odd sense of déjà vu hitting him, "Weasley... listen..."

Her breath hitched; it was an infinitesimal sound but he heard it nonetheless and his gaze followed the lines of her throat before gliding back up to linger on her face again, eyes searching hers.

He didn't want her pity, he never did, and he was ashamed of the emotionally revealing scenes he had made in front of her that could indicate otherwise. He wasn't an effin' Gryffindor or Hufflepuff!

Swallowing again, throat gone dry, he hadn't even realized he had moved in closer to her, before his eyes caught sight of something over her shoulder that made him pause and abruptly draw back:

An unnervingly familiar, all-black figure was storming resolutely towards them, the Auror's booming voice making Ginny flinch and turn around.

"You didn't show up at our meeting point and it's _far_ past four o'clock! The rest of the group has already left," Warwick scolded irately as she reached them, wand at her side, and her bouncing Jamaican cadence making the words seem all the more vehement. "And what did I say about venturing further than the village grounds without my knowledge or my accompanying you?!"

"Erm…"

Startled and still a bit dazed from the (_un_timely?) interruption, Ginny was once more at a loss in front of the older witch who was staring them down with a fiery expression that brooked no excuses.

Similarly, Blaise took another moment of distraction from the familiar scents assaulting his nostrils as Ginny had turned around. She stood quite close to him, her back turned; most likely an unconscious action on her part, and he was struck by how he was able to pick up her scent outside. Still, it was quite _particular_; his subconsciousness trying to pinpoint it: Warm, floral, dewy grass and worn leather and something he couldn't put his finger on. Something that pulled him in and–

He blinked and tore himself from his straying thoughts, focusing in on the fuming Auror as the flabbergasted redhead tried to formulate a coherent sentence in front of him. Eyeing the top of the latter's head, his lips twitched in amusement, before bringing his gaze back to Warwick. Likewise he had to acknowledge that the Auror cut an impressive figure of authority, especially given her relatively young years. Not that age was anything to go by in the Auror Department, what with Scarhead, Weasley's nitwit of a brother and _Longbottom_ presently trekking those halls in the Ministry, _Merlin help us all_. Also, Warwick was a head shorter than him, though that was still somewhat tall for a woman. Weasley almost reached the same height. Besides, he wasn't easily intimidated; usually _he_ did the intimidation, but this one surely had an aura that made him feel pity for _anyone_ on the receiving end of her ire.

Which, at this moment, were _them_.

He took a calm step forward and around Weasley, hands raised in a placatory gesture. "Listen, Warwick –" he started, making her stern gaze zoom in on him and narrow in warning, momentarily throwing him off course.

Ginny, however, quickly filled in, somewhat panicky, "We were only, er, taking a walk, talking, not really registering where we were going," she wavered, "and we, well, just ended up here… I guess." She gestured to their surroundings which were more or less the _outer_ outskirts of the village. Cringing, she realized how lame her excuse sounded and looked up at Blaise with a sheepish shrug.

The latter, in turn, simply stared back at her with an unguarded look of surprise, and she couldn't tell if he was disappointed or secretly pleased by her evasive answer. He seemed to sense his noticeable reaction though and his dark orbs changed, regaining their calculating cool and once again scanning her eyes, as if expecting some secret agenda behind her words.

_Typical_ _Slytherin_.

The female Auror steadily regarded the two students in front of her and harrumphed, evidently _not_ convinced by the answer. "Well, _next time_, be so kind to let me know beforehand if you intent on just 'walking and talking', okay?"

More an order than a request, Warwick searched their faces, expecting to see unanimous agreement written in them; lips pursed in a way that eerily reminded them of a quietly pissed-off McGonagall.

Blaise then chose to break whatever tension that had crept over him and Ginny. "Of course, Ma'am," he replied smoothly on behalf of them both (apparently), though his overt seriousness belied the compulsory charmer underneath.

Ginny shot him a leery stare. Just _how_ he was able to turn on a plate like that was beyond her grasp. He caught her look (of course; ever the observant one) and suppressed a smirk.

Warwick sternly signalled for them to walk in front of her in direction of the castle, sending her Patronus – in the shape of graceful tigress – ahead to message Rowe of their late return.

As they started to trek uphill, aware of the Auror's gaze boring into the back of their heads a couple of feet behind them, Ginny subtly elbowed the taller wizard beside her.

"_Ouch_, Red," came the dry protest.

"You are incorrigible," she hissed.

Shrugging in a nonchalant manner – making her once again wonder at his utterly Slytherin, mercurial behaviour – Zabini stuck his hands in his pockets and turned his walk into his usual saunter.

"Can hardly blame a man for responding accordingly to such _splendid_ company." His head gave the barest of tilts to the Auror trailing behind them, though his eyes remained on Ginny, flashing mischievously.

"She's practically _twice_ our age, Zabini," she shot back in a censuring whisper; sneaking a look over her shoulder to make sure the Auror in question hadn't heard her. It was difficult to tell, really, since Warwick's hard expression remained perfectly professional, though she hadn't taken her eyes off them.

Cocking both eyebrows to amused heights, Blaise looked as if he was about to chortle, calmly replying, "So? Do you really think that has stopped me before?" Ginny almost choked on a mouthful of the humid, Scottish air around them. "Besides," he continued, smugness back in full force as he bent his head down towards her; the deep rumble of his baritone purposefully getting under her skin, "I have always had this – _thing_ for older women."

She let out a low grumble and heard his answering chuckle but refused to let him goad her further, instead choosing to stare pointedly at the bleak scenery before them with a squared-off chin.

Though, inwardly, she couldn't help taking hold of the seed he had planted and started speculating, surreptitiously looking him over through the curtain of her hair. Most people likely saw themselves falling under the spell of the tall, cool and regal ex-Slytherin. That guy could talk foxes out of eating geese if he wanted to – with the foxes barely registering the con. She had only observed a certain handful of adults, teachers mostly, who remained blatantly _un-_charmed by him. Such as McGonagall, but that was also _McGonagall_, and, besides, Ginny had never noted that the Italian had been anything but respectful – if not slightly apprehensive himself – towards the elder Scotswoman.

The image – of the pompous Italian being thoroughly reprimanded by her former Head of House – brought her _some_ satisfaction, at least.

Blaise, meanwhile, was having a right laugh from her earlier reaction, though he conveniently chose to keep it to himself for the time being. _That'll give her something to ponder upon, for sure, _he chuckled to himself.

He took in her features from the corner of his eye. Even agitated, the girl looked striking; hair blazing in time with the lightning shooting in her caramel eyes. As he let his gaze glide indolently from her head to the rest of her body, which was moving forward with strained determination, he noticed she was absent any large shopping bags and got curious.

"Where's the bags of gold, by the way? Not gotten cold feet, have you?" She looked befuddled up at him. "The candy, Red?" he rephrased, eyes dropping to her empty hands.

"Oh!" She padded a small leather bag hanging from her shoulder which he hadn't noticed before now, "Undetectable Extension Charm. Wickedly brilliant." A proud grin played on her lips, the earlier animosity momentarily forgotten, "Hermione taught me it."

Eyes going skywards, he huffed dryly, "_Of course_, Granger did."

"Hey!" came the indignant retort.

He produced a light snort at her pout. She cleared her throat, but he did not miss the unwitting smile momentarily tug at her lips as they continued onwards along the road to the school, trying to ignore the covert glances they kept sending each other.

A question still roamed his mind, however: Why _on earth_ had she evaded telling the truth when Warwick questioned them about their little off-track lapse, especially since she had been so adamant about it, in the first place? Didn't Gryffindors make it their nauseating, sanctimonious mission in life to strive towards the truth – and _only_ the truth?

And it wasn't like she hadn't spilled the beans before...

He stifled the desire to drive a frustrated hand across his head.

_Merlin_, how he _loathed_ Gryffindors sometimes.

Speaking of unexpectedly misleading characters, the brief image of a _possible_ certain former Slytherin hurrying through the village crossed his mind. No, he was almost certain it had been him. And if that really _was_ Theo, what the fuck was he doing sneaking around Hogsmeade on his own? Why had he declined to come along, lied and said he had 'homework' to do instead? Blaise couldn't help feeling somewhat stung. Though they didn't usually confide in each other about everything they did and where they went, he knew they were on the same page. They _both_ knew it; they took comfort in it and the fact that they never had to admit it out loud (not that any Slytherin would even entertain such a maudlin thought).

Whatever clandestine matter Theo had to tend to – in Hogsmeade, of all places! – that he'd go so far to brave the new school restrictions _and_ an army of Aurors _and_ keep it a secret from him, Blaise intended to find out. Admittedly, he was worried. Being the last left on school, and perhaps entirely, to stay friends with Theo, he couldn't help _but_ worry. Theo hadn't exactly been the epitome of a healthy, well-adjusted student during their final years, definitely hitting rock bottom last year, but Blaise didn't like how his steady drinking had failed to decline since the war and how he always seemed to put on a brave face and carefree attitude. Sure, a weight had definitely been lifted from his shoulders with Voldemort's death and his father's imprisonment, but a shadow still clung to his countenance whenever he thought no one noticed.

Blaise shot a glance at the pensive redhead beside him.

Funny, how alike these two people who had wedged their ways into his life really were.

And... he wasn't at all sure how to feel about the jumble of emotions that accompanied _that_ surprisingly truthful notion.

When they finally reached the Entrance Gates and the two Aurors standing guard – who cleared them once they received whatever secret code word Warwick passed on to them – they walked the rest of the way across the court to the main entrance. Seeing the giant oak doors opened, Ginny frowned in confusion until she spotted a tall, lone figure standing inside the opening to the Front Hall, waiting for them.

Rowe.

Shooting a nervous glance up at Blaise, she saw he too had noticed him.

_Oh, boy._

Warwick outpaced them before they knew it and walked straight up in front of them. "For now, I'll explain our absence from the group to the Head Auror," she said and they both breathed out, relieved not to be put in the hot seat immediately. "However," Warwick clarified sternly, "you can be certain you _will_ be called in to explain the _real_ reason for breaking our deal and wander off by yourselves." She regarded them both with narrowed eyes.

_Shit._

She didn't believe them. No wonder really, what with Ginny's sad excuse of an explanation.

_By Salazar_, Blaise chagrined. Did Gryffindors really have to be this bad at lying?

Warwick gave them another strict glare as if to say _'you better not break our agreement this time!_' then gave a wordless nod to seal the deal and turned to stride inside towards Rowe. The latter remained eerily patient, waiting for a report with his usual stoic expression in place and sharp eyes glued to their faces as Blaise and Ginny followed behind.

Warily eyeing them from a safe distance as the Aurors started addressing each other in hushed voices, shooting the subjects of their discussion pointed looks, Ginny and Blaise took to the wide staircase, trying not to seem too eager to get away from the intimidating elders.

When they were safely out of eye- and earshot, Blaise surprised Ginny by grabbing her by the upper arm with enough force for her to topple against his chest.

She looked up at him, perplexed and unnerved by standing so close to him. "_What_?"

"Are we going to talk about the fact that you didn't blurt out the matter of Dorne's appearance as the first thing when Warwick found us?"

Ginny stared dumbly back at him, taking in his serious face. "Um..."

She then became very aware of the body she stood leaning against; the gentle rising and falling of his broad torso pressed against her own, and the proximity turned stifling. She placed her hands on his chest to put some space between them, however, he kept his grip firm but not painful, halting her from moving away and pulled her against him once more. With a small gasp, she came up dry-mouthed as she tried recalling her exact reasoning for throwing that little white lie to Warwick. It didn't help how Blaise's warm breath wafted across her face, while those shrewd, hooded eyes coolly but insistently monitored her response.

He was right: Why _hadn't_ she immediately told the truth?

"I... I just thought it was better to put it in front of McGonagall and, um, then _she_ could somehow _gently_ break the news to Rowe and Warwick..." She gave a wan smile, "No need to stir up the dragon's nest any further, right?"

There was a subtle shift in his slate, stoic orbs, but it was gone just as quickly, returning to his previous mask of put-on apathy.

"_Fine_." He abruptly let go of her, making her stumble backwards with an affronted glare. "If you really think that is going to _lessen_ any suspicion regarding our – or rather _my_ – involvement in the matter when first it's out there, be my guest," he added in an acerbic tone, gaze blazing as he forced it away from her.

"Look," she groaned, still reeling a bit from the side effects of being manhandled by him. Then, finding her stance again, she crossed her arms, "I'm only trying to do some damage control here. I don't think they'll suspect us anymore _because_ of it than they already do."

"Oh, no?" he replied sardonically, one eyebrow raised.

"Well, no...maybe...," she sighed and gestured in frustration, "How am I to know what goes on in their heads?! Who's to say? But I still think McGonagall will listen and mitigate whatever unfair treatment comes our way. She believes in our innocence. She trusts us."

A quick, cold chortle escaped Blaise's throat and he shot her an incredulous look, still baffled by the naivety of her former House. "You _Gryffindors_! Always believing in the best in people and their intentions!"

She harrumphed. "Actually, _no_, I'm sorry to disappoint you there, for once, Zabini. I'm fairly certain the Aurors _are_ harbouring ill intentions towards us, some way or another." She lowered her voice as if speaking more to herself, "I just can't figure out why exactly. Other than needing a post-war scapegoat of sorts."

Gazing back up at him, she was surprised to see the incredulous look had shifted in his eyes and turned more astonished.

Perhaps he hadn't expected her to hold such a critical and candid opinion of the Auror administration, likely given her personal connections to the department. Even now, she felt a flash of guilt saying the words out loud, because it indeed sounded like disloyalty to Harry, Ron and Neville and all the rest of them working there. But she couldn't help feeling involved in the matter – well, she _had_ literally been dragged into it – and facing it alongside somebody who'd bear the brunt of unjustified suspicion for a very long time... someone, she now had come to know more or less; someone whom she _knew_ was innocent in all this... well, it put a perspective on things. She far from condoned the way the Aurors had treated them so far, and she had begun to wonder about what kind of training the Aurors got; how they got recruited and who recruited them. Was Kingsley in on all this? Did he condone the vigilant way Rowe seemed to steer things? Was he even aware of it?

If she was ever to be called partial or subjective in her judgement of the Aurors because of her involvement in the matter and personal investment concerning Zabini, she'd like to see what could be said of _Rowe_'s handling of things!

"Right," Blaise murmured, drawing her attention to him again, "I see. Well, thank you...then," he said without looking at her and grimaced, the words feeling wrong in his mouth when directed towards _her_.

She blinked as if she'd heard wrong. "'Scuse me?"

"You heard me. You're stalling the inevitable, no doubt about it, but you're trying to help, I see that. In your own fallible, clumsy, Gryffindor-kind of way."

She snorted at his back-handed compliment but was no less impressed that he'd found a shed of magnanimity in himself and actually appreciated her efforts to get them out of this shithole. No matter how futile it was. Though she was far from convinced it would end so dire.

Watching the clearly discomforted Blaise Zabini still standing in front of her, she smiled to herself. A former Slytherin in debt to a former Gryffindor. Now, who had seen that coming?

"Well, fuck me: The great, infallible Zabini just paid a Weasley a genuine compliment. You owe me now, you know, Zabini. You owe me _big_ _time_!"

She laughed as his expression changed, and she started walking down the corridor towards her quarters, thoroughly entertained by the picture of him grovelling in front of her, when she heard him shout behind her:

"_The fuck_ I do!"


	23. A gathering storm

"Stay in line, Pressett! No foul play!" Ginny yelled against the wind as the Chaser in question cobbed and pushed another team member a little too aggressively, making them tumble together and swerve dangerously close to one of the tall, rustling stands. "Do not make me say it again!"

Frowning, she observed her players bustle and separate before going for the Quaffle again.

It had been under no great protests that Quidditch, miraculously, had been allowed on the school grounds again. Well, 'miraculously' was perhaps the wrong choice of word. It was more like, 'on certain, non-negotiable conditions', which were just another set of words for 'constant supervision' from Aurors posted around the field.

And though getting back on the broom was as comfortable as sliding on her worn leather gloves, currently watching the game unfold with the same practised astuteness that had come so easily to her with the role as Captain, her mind was split.

The news had been announced during one of the following days after the Hogsmeade trip where she and Blaise had, once again, been called to the Headmistress' office to be 'reprimanded' for their 'indiscretions' during the trip, with Rowe and Warwick present as well.

Of course, she and Blaise had some news to bring themselves. There was no other way around it.

Blaise had mostly just sat there in tense silence, letting her talk as before while pressing his lips into a tight, grey line, his whole body buzzing with quiet frustration. She wasn't sure if he had blamed her and which part he may have blamed her for. Perhaps he had given up blaming anyone at all, not seeing any point in it?

She had then tried to explain the situation, directed to McGonagall in particular, knowing she'd find most understanding there, while Warwick, tight-faced, relayed the raw truth of what they had told her at the time, and Rowe practically hit the roof in his own innate tenacity of carrying suspicions and demanding answers that confirmed said unfounded suspicions.

Unsurprisingly, they were both compelled to tell every little detail of what had occurred, repeatedly defending their own positions whenever Rowe interrupted with one of his fastidious questions or shot them one of his cold, narrowed glances that screamed of disbelief.

Eventually, the three adults displayed sober looks in face of this new possible threat near the school on top of the other, and Ginny twisted anxiously in her seat while they looked at each other, debating what to do with this new information, given they had just made leeway regarding Quidditch. Whatever misgivings Ginny had about the surveillance during training and the matches, she felt a stone settle near her heart at the thought of being denied the game again.

_Please, _please_, don't take this away from me once more. It's all I got._

After a long period of contemplation and, perhaps sensing her dread, McGonagall decided against it, sending Ginny a grave, but empathetic expression. She said no more of it but it was enough to make Ginny exhale in quiet gratitude.

It was then discussed and decided that an investigative team of Aurors would be posted in Hogsmeade to look further into the matter of Dorne's appearance.

The subject of Blaise and Ginny's roles in it all was still hanging heavily and unresolved in the air, mixed with one protective aura, one suspicious, one enigmatic and two uneasy ones.

Finally, the Quaffle reached a hoop and a unanimous roar rang out from below.

"Well done, Cassidy!" Ginny responded as she was driven from her ruminations and watched the heaving Chaser fist-pump and fly a couple of victory laps before directing her instructions towards the 'unlucky' Keeper. "Remember: No flacking, Talbot! Keep those limbs of out the goals!"

The team had been practising all afternoon despite the murky weather which now had turned into quite the rainstorm. Within an hour, it had everybody drenched to the bone despite the use of an extensive Impervius Charm.

From her vantage point above the pitch, Ginny watched as each team member gnashed their teeth together and rallied through, doing an impressive job trying to steer their brooms against Mother Nature herself when she was at her most playful and merciless. Hair clung to their faces while they clutched their broomsticks in order not to be blown off when twisting in and out between opponents or during any particularly steep downward or curved dive. For a while there, Ginny was seriously considering calling the training off, seeing them pushing themselves to their limits and already looking exhausted, but then she reminded herself that braving the weather was also a part of the training since matches were not usually cancelled simply because of a chance of heavy rain or even storm. Call it unfair or not, but the students of Hogwarts had been put through worse, and she knew her team with an almost maternal instinct. Several of them had experienced and even participated in the Battle of Hogwarts. They braved every challenge she threw at them with the same mix of initial teenaged grumpiness and exhaustion and eventual stubborn, sporting spirit. Each of them wanted to be the best or, more importantly, to beat the opposite teams. They were far from quitters and she was proud of them.

She remembered such training days herself, back when she'd just joined Quidditch and how shattered, exhilarated and happy she had been, despite feeling like she had just been trampled upon by ten dragons. But it was a good burn, a joyous feeling; to see everyone's sweaty and animated faces afterwards, to feel the occasional clap on the shoulder and share a laugh out of sheer tiredness or losing frustration... well, it was worth it. Every time.

A sense of bittersweet nostalgia filled her. Once again, it seemed so long ago now. As if she looked back on an entirely different version of herself. Someone she either needed to rediscover or leave behind –

_Whoosh!_

A Bludger hurtling past her head snapped her out of her musings, sending her heart palpitating, and she immediately focused in on the game, instinctively calling out the Beater whom she knew had made the blunder.

"McNeill! Lose that arm! You want to _confuse_ the opponent when you backbeat, not hit the Bludger out of the bloody pitch!"

Unsure whether the Beater had gotten the message through the howls of the wind and the lashing rain, Ginny drifted down through the unfolding game towards McNeill who had momentarily frozen in his place, staring down at his bat before looking up in confusion.

She was about to open her mouth but frowned when his expression changed into one of dread and he gave a frantic wave in her direction, pointing somewhere beyond her head.

"_Watch out, Capt'n_!"

A rush of air behind her and she instinctively ducked, narrowly escaping the howling Bludger smashing into her head for a second time.

_What the–?_

She tried spotting the high-speed Bludger but even her trained eye couldn't keep track of its rogue behaviour in the midst of the curtains of heavy rain whipping in her face. Through the storm and the confusion, the other players must have realized something was wrong as well and had stopped the game, trying to decipher what was happening.

There was a jarring sound on her right and she swung left and backwards, dodging the Bludger again.

_Really?!_ Ginny clamoured inwardly. _This again?_ She recalled her first year when Harry had been made a similar target during a Quidditch match, thanks to the misguided intentions of a House Elf trying to protect him. However, this one didn't seem like the workings of a House Elf's efforts to 'simply hurt' in order to _save_.

No. This one seemed to have the intent to_ kill_.

To kill _her_, more specifically.

An unbidden chill ran down her sweat- and rain-soaked back, her stomach turning in trepidation and battle instincts setting in.

She whirled her broom around to try and interpret the next move of that bloody thing, withdrawing her wand from her uniform holster and sending a Periculum above her head. In the exact same second, a lightening split the sky and the first bout of thunder threatened the air around them. From the momentary flash she saw the iron ball curve in the distance, through the murky clouds, and start to fly inwards towards the pitch, smashing through one of the stands as if it was made out of toothpicks.

"Get down!" She cried to the nearby team members, aiming her wand at the fast-approaching Bludger. "_Finite_!" The object of her aim didn't react to the Counter-Spell and advanced on her with a speed that took her by surprise as another lightning struck the sky, thunderclap rolling in its wake. She swerved her broom to the side then flew upwards to draw the fight away from the lower part of the pitch.

"Stay out of sight!" She barked in the approximate direction of the others, having lost track of their positions in the misty dark bearing down on them and hoping they'd already had the sense to do so. Despite the risks of flying high above ground during a thunderstorm, she couldn't risk her team either and feared accidentally hitting them with a spell when trying to aim at the unpredictable Bludger.

_Where the bloody hell are the Aurors?!_

The ball sailed past her once again, _too_ close, and she reared her head to the side, the rain stinging her already frozen cheeks, before she spun around and proceeded to throw spells at its tail, feeling like she was aiming in blind. "_Expulso_! _Confringo_! _Bombarda_!"

None of them hit home and the Bludger disappeared from sight again.

"Fuck!" she growled, urging her broom forward and hovering within the upper edge of the pitch. Desperately narrowing her eyes to try and get a clearer vision of her fuzzy, deafening surroundings she contemplated how to deal with the unruly Bludger somewhere in the mist. Despite awaiting and hoping for the snap arrival of the Aurors (who were still oddly remiss), she wasn't keen on the fact that they were likely just as blinded by the weather as she was, making both parties white rabbits in a snow storm and unfortunate targets of any aimless spells sent in either direction. Should she just keep on throwing seemingly ineffective curses at the hexed ball, in that case? Or let it chase her, dodging it until they arrived? Either way was a risk.

She blasted another Periculum into the racketing sky above to make her position known to whomever should be nearby, just as the cursed Bludger came out of nowhere and hurtled itself towards her for the umpteenth time. Again, thanks to the adrenaline now coursing in her veins, sharpening her battle senses, she managed to duck, gritting her teeth in frustration when the undeterred iron ball as a result crashed through another stand, the one behind her.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck–_

How long could she keep this going?

A panicked thought of being robbed the opportunity to play on the school grounds for the rest of the school year as a result of this flicked through her mind.

_No. Fuck this!_

She back-flipped her broom, twirled and dived in the opposite direction, rushing down towards the lower part of the pitch along the sides of the stands, heading right towards the charging Bludger coming down the far end of the pitch where McNeill was still standing, frozen in his spot.

If she couldn't stop it with spells, she could at least slow it down by letting it hit its 'target'.

Shakily, she rose up on her broom, knees bent and boots slipping to crouch on the wet broomstick, rain hitting her in the face, she grimaced, eyes trained on the incoming iron ball, and the ball only, approaching with an unnerving speed and purposefulness.

She was ready to jump at any second now –

There was shouting behind her – sounding like foreign words in her ears – and instinctively, she reared her broom upwards to slow it down just as the Bludger exploded mere feet from her.

The unknown spell had come out of nowhere and Ginny whipped her head around, misty rain for a second obstructing her vision before her eyes landed on the sole figure in the middle of the court, wand still raised.

_Warwick_.

The Auror was visibly panting and Ginny surmised she must have rushed to get here in time like the rest of the Aurors who now descended upon the field.

And what a timing!

Out of breath, Ginny blearily landed on the ground, legs soaked through and shaking under her. Her chest rattled as she inhaled gulps of the humid air around her, gasping in the process. Blinking out raindrops, she looked towards the sooty spot of dust where the Bludger had been only seconds ago, feeling the adrenalin still pumping good and steady.

_What, in Circe's name, just happened?_

Casting an assessing eye around her team on the ground, presently being consoled by Aurors, she spotted McNeill standing by himself, staring dazedly ahead. Rain was dripping from his pale brow and long nose (a somewhat unfortunate asset for a Beater) and he must have sensed her attention as he looked around and met her gaze, exhausted and relieved.

"Ta', Capt'n," he saluted, loud enough for her to hear.

_Yeah, you and me both, mate,_ she breathed to herself, wiping a forearm across her own brow. The rain had now shifted into a dense drizzle, the storm still simmering and rumbling with dark intentions over their heads. It was far from finished with them.

"You alright?" said a voice behind her and Ginny turned her head to see Warwick approaching. "Sorry about the late call," the Auror stated monotonously as she came to a halt, her face hard and focused and Ginny was once again reminded of the seriousness of the situation. "The posted Aurors were called away for an emergency situation nearby during the time of your game which then proved to be a false alarm. Professor Zelenko alerted us to the hexed Bludger." Her fierce expression betrayed nothing but a small tension around the mouth that told Ginny the Auror wasn't under any spell regarding the otherwise popular, charming Professor.

She was about to open her mouth in reply when Zelenko himself appeared between them, having likely heard his name mentioned. He drove a tanned hand through his dark, moist hair, emitting an exaggerated sigh of relief as if he too had been greatly rattled by the incident and a little too self-congratulatory about his own role in intervening.

"You're very welcome, Miss Weasley. I happened to be watching your training today – and fortunately so, it seemed!"

Ginny frowned. She wondered why he'd chosen this day of all days to come and watch them training. Usually, they didn't have spectators during these kinds of days, despite using the Stadium and not the Training pitch, and especially not during bad weather. The fact that it was _him_ combined with the unusual appearance of a hexed Bludger made the 'coincidence' all the more suspicious.

"Well, then, I guess I should thank you, Sir." She barely withheld the sarcasm from her voice, and for a second Zelenko seemed slightly befuddled by her tone before quickly gaining his footing again.

"I see you haven't lost your fighting spirit. Good to know," he deflected jovially. Beside him, Warwick still kept a straight face but she wasn't _entirely_ indifferent to the conversation and Ginny silently wondered what she was thinking.

Zelenko cleared his throat and the awkward moment stretched. Ginny merely gazed coolly back at him, waiting.

"Well, I'd better go check on the rest of the team. Can't have my students walking around traumatized, can we now?" He gave a small, forced laugh, making Ginny want to pull a face. She felt something close to protectiveness at his phrasing. As if this was really a joking matter! As if it was actually _his_ students before _her_ team! She knew she wasn't exactly fair in her reasoning, but she couldn't help herself at the moment.

Glancing briefly between them with an irritatingly insipid smile, as if he had done his part and they were the ones to clean up the mess, literally and figuratively, he dusted himself off and walked on. Warwick and Ginny eyed him as he left.

Ginny shot another look at the other woman's face, confirming what she already suspected: Warwick indeed seemed wary of the bloke. But, then again, wasn't she a little bit with everybody? Wasn't that just part of the job for a seasoned Auror?

"You don't trust him, do you?" she chanced asking.

The statuesque Auror shifted her eyes to Ginny, sharp and observant, before finally responding, "I don't trust him as far as I can throw him."

Ginny's mouth twitched and her voice lowered, daring a little further, "And I bet you could throw him quite far. If you wanted to, that is."

Warwick surveyed her for a second though she seemed neither offended nor lost on the small joke. Surprising Ginny, she instead looked down as if to hide the minuscule, downwards pull by the corner of her mouth. "I certainly would like to try. If the chance came, that is."

A small snort got stuck in Ginny's throat when, right in that moment, the subject in question walked past them again, and for all Warwick's unmoving features, her dark, hard eyes exuded a mischievous sparkle.

Ginny realized she might have been sorely mistaken in her first impression of the Auror's brusque persona. Or, rather, thought her tough and unyielding in the same cumbersome way Rowe was stubborn and suspicious. And despite Warwick's rather frank report at McGonagall's office, Ginny respected her to stand by her principles. Oddly enough, she felt she could rely on the female Auror. Maybe she could even voice some of her faint suspicions about Zelenko to her and actually be taken seriously, given Warwick's own apprehension towards him?

"How –" Ginny started and then, feeling Warwick's rapt attention on her face, chickened out, instead going with, "How will this affect the continued permission to play Quidditch?" She hardly dared look up and see the answer written all over the Auror's face.

"I cannot rightly say," the older woman replied, cadence rolling solemnly. "The executive order is out of my hands, but there will be repercussions from this incident. Further restrictions or redoubled supervision, no doubt."

It was the bittersweet truth and Ginny grimaced, knowing having Quidditch banned was the least ramification that could come from all this. With what had occurred just within this school year, she felt resigned to adapt to every restriction and reprimand sent her way. Well, not just _her_ way. Besides, anything was a step up from the Carrow's 'executive orders' the previous year. She shuddered slightly at the memories. After all, McGonagall was steadfast and merciful in her principles. The Scotswoman would stand up to Rowe (as she had already proven) and the entire Auror department included, if necessary.

And, somewhere, deep down, Ginny knew Harry, Ron and Neville would too. No matter the cost of their newly-held positions in the department.

She was sure of it.

"Well," Warwick reflected, drawing Ginny's attention again as she surveyed their surroundings, "I guess I better check up on the situation and get back to the chief as quickly as possible. He'll need a rapport." Her shrewd eyes returned to Ginny, giving her another once-over that made Ginny feel quite transparent. However, there was nothing outright suspicious to be found in the dark orbs, only professional concern. "You're _sure_ you're alright and in one piece?"

"Quite," Ginny nodded hurriedly.

Warwick lingered a second longer, not quite convinced, but then gave an affirmative nod and moved towards the rest of the Aurors. Apparently, Ginny's team mates had sought shelter in the locker rooms, in the meantime.

Sighing, feeling the oppressive weather had taken symbolic residence upon her chest after recent days' events, she picked up her broom and trudged towards the locker rooms as well.

_So much for getting back up on the broom again._


	24. Behind the tapestry

Theo shifted in his seat.

For two hours, he had been sitting quietly by himself at a lone table in the Library, stooped over another tedious Herbology essay. Despite his continued efforts to remain focused, it was a dull concentration, one that lulled him into a vagrant mindset, setting his quill to work almost automatically, hardly registering the committed words on paper. Words that he already knew in the back of his mind but didn't bother putting much thought into. It merely felt like copying sentences from one of the hundreds textbooks he had read and boundless classes he had attended throughout the school years, and even before that. After all, he was 'academically gifted but, regrettably, chronically indolent'. Much to the displeasure of his father once (though why that old bastard had given two Knuts about his _career_ of all things only the gods knew).

Sensing a shadow across the table top, he lifted his vacant gaze from the same two sentences he had been staring at for the last ten minutes, and the sight of the tall Italian looming over him with an expression that brooked no excuses had him almost make a mess of his essay.

_Sheesh, how long has _he_ been standing there?_

Theo put down his quill. "Blaise... Mate, what's up?"

Blaise's wide chest expanded in a sigh and he leaned over, unfolding and placing both arms on the table to gaze more probingly into Theo's uncertain expression.

"I should ask you the same, Theo," he retorted flatly, something in that deep lilt warning him off sidestepping whatever issue Blaise had with him.

Theo swallowed. "I'm not sure what you're on about, mate?" He winced when Blaise slammed one large hand down on the table in front of him.

"_Enough_," the Italian rumbled between clenched teeth, briefly closing his eyes. "Enough with the bloody 'mate'-speech and the bloody _lies_, Theo." Twisting back in his seat, Theo stared up at the other wizard, trying to discern the cause of his friend's third-degree interrogation. Leaning back as well, Blaise fixed him with a long look. "_Tell_. Me. About. Hogsmeade."

For a second, Theo's eyes widened into an almost comical expression before his Slytherin mask fell over his countenance like a shadow, all too well known by any former Housemate. "I have no idea what you on about," he murmured, feigning nonchalance as his gaze slid away.

Crumbling his hand into a fist, almost painfully so, Blaise held himself back from slamming it down a second time. Beneath his lashes, Theo's eyes were glued to said fist, betraying his uncaring exterior.

"Don't give me that, Teddy," Blaise gritted out, torn between wanting to throttle his friend and reluctant to spook him away. "I _saw_ you."

Theo's head snapped up. "What?"

Dipping his chin in affirmation, Blaise continued. "I saw you scuttling off between the houses when the Prefects were in Hogsmeade. Funny that, because I recall you said you were otherwise occupied with homework and unable to come along that day." Surveying his friend's warring expression for a second longer, he lowered his voice, keeping it as temperate as possible. "What were you doing there, Theo?"

Theo opened and closed his mouth as his eyes flicked across Blaise's features. Nibbling on his lower lip, his gaze shifted downwards, uneasy to settle on one spot.

"I have nothing to say to you," came his faint voice.

Blaise frowned. He had only witnessed Theo like this once or twice in his life; whenever he or Draco had prodded long and persistently enough into one of his moods until he had finally relented and indirectly alluded to the state of his home life. The memory made Blaise want to retract his earlier volatile display.

Firmly, but consolatory, he reached over and grabbed one of Theo's bony shoulders. "Whatever is the matter, Theo, you can tell me." After a moment of unresponsiveness, he solemnly entreated, "Tell me."

Rising swiftly, shaking off his hand, Theo's delicate features had hardened into an impenetrable shell.

"_No_."

Still not looking at Blaise, he proceeded to pick up his books and papers and then hurried out of the Library with his shoulders bowed.

Perturbed by his sudden evasiveness, Blaise sat back on the edge of the table, questions roaming his mind. Wiping a hand down across his face, he felt drained. He _knew_ he shouldn't have asked; shouldn't have stuck his long nose into Theo's business and 'attacked' him like that.

_That's what comes from mixing with fucking emoting Gryffindors most of the time_, a pedantic voice whispered in the back of his mind and grumpily he dismissed it. Perhaps the whole Dorne/Dementor-affair was getting on his nerves.

With a sigh, he slid his long body gracefully off the edge of the table, nearly bumping into a group of Fifth Year girls who had come around the corner of one of the bookcases. They only giggled, eyeing him up and down.

Usually, he would pause and flirt back for a while. Harmless stuff, really. Sure, he would not have said no if he found a willing one among them. Mostly they ended up with a quickie in the girls' bathroom before class. Just to take the edge off. But too often his hook-ups got too attached, demanding his attention afterwards, throwing their drunken arses at him at parties. OK, so he shagged them. _Again_. Who could blame him when they behaved so wantonly?

But then, he _definitely_ dumped them.

Eyeing the girls with a cursory glance, he snorted and walked on. He was in no mood for it today.

Speaking of clingy 'exes', he had better settle things with Paloma. For good; though he harboured no great eagerness to do so. Yet, he was even more averse to have her sending him venomous glances for the rest of the school year, or, even worse, meddling with his affairs in order to get back at him. He honestly had no patience for anymore unnecessary drama in his life.

Why the thought on making good on the former Hufflepuff came to him right now, he had no clue, especially since he had just 'reminisced' on carelessly using and ditching girls.

_Oh, that's right_, his mind backtracked. _Bloody conscience-stricken Gryffindors!_

_Fuck's sake_. Being around _any_ of them really did him no good. Maybe he should just go back to his old ways. Not that the thought brought him any greater pleasure. Not any longer. But, at least, back _then_, things were easier to separate.

With another snort at his own transgressions, he exited the Library and took the staircase connecting the library corridor to the second-floor corridor, two steps at the time. In the flickering light of the torches along the walls, his mind played back to the Hogsmeade trip and what had followed.

He sure wasn't comfortable with the fact that his destiny presently resided in the not-so-careful hands of Rowe and the unknown hands of that Auror Warwick (whom he still hadn't quite figured out). McGonagall was another case, of course, and though he had never held any warm feelings for the woman, he knew he at least could rely on her moral skill set to prevent him from being dragged to Azkaban by tomorrow on false claims. (Alright, he had adopted one of those dramatic hyperboles from Draco, but still...)

Speaking of another former acquaintance, maybe it was high time he visited his old, blonde mate up north to see how he fared. _If_ he could get out of the tight-fisted clutches of that insufferable Rowe bloke for a moment or so, _without_ being showered with accusations, that is.

With a low groan, he turned a corner, coming upon the Gargoyle Corridor and spotted a familiar redhead in midst of – _no surprise_ – being interrogated by and/or arguing with said thick-headed Head Auror near the entrance to the Headmistress' Office.

Was that girl simply a magnet for trouble?

_And why is it I choose to surround myself with difficult people?_

Moving along the shadows of the sparsely lit corridor, Blaise made sure to draw as little attention to himself as possible as he crept closer. Not that he should be too concerned about it at the moment, since the two figures were far too engrossed in their specific stare-off. Still, with Rowe he could never be sure. Just like he never could with Snape or Mad-Eye Moody. He shuddered lightly at the memory of being the unlucky bastard caught by one of those two old bats' attention. However, hadn't he learned a thing or two from Snape? How to carry oneself like a true and reticent Slytherin; asserting oneself without even trying? Of course, Blaise hadn't inherited his natural charm from him. The thought itself was laughable; Snape had as much charm as a Flobberworm. Speaking of, it wouldn't surprise him if the Weaslette had picked up a thing or two from old Mad-Eye during her time in the Order; sixth sense and all that.

Still, Blaise crept closer to the rather déjà vu scenario, intercepting pieces of the 'conversation' between the agitated redhead who was standing with her back to Blaise, nose in the air, arms crossed and, presumably, a searing scowl covering her freckled brow, while Rowe was like a pillar; the very definition of an eagle observing its prey, his face set in stone:

"You've been allowed this much leeway. Don't think I won't keep an eye on you, Miss Weasley. _Both_ of you." Blaise's ears pricked up. Were they discussing him as well? _Oh, where's your brain at? _Of course_, they are!_

"Of that, I have no doubt," he heard Ginny reply caustically. "_Sir_."

The Head Auror raised his brow with a minuscule twitch that would have gone unnoticed if you hadn't met him before. Still, his subtlest expression seemed to speak the loudest.

Dissatisfied with her obstinacy, he assessed her stoically. "Hm, yes, well. I may not have the complete power to restrain your movements within this school given your stature and favour with the Headmistress. But if you value your credentials, after you finish school as well, you will do well in keeping away from that boy and stay on the straight and narrow path from now on."

Ginny gaped. "Are... you _threatening_ me?"

Rowe sent her a wholly unsympathetic and stiff smirk. "Well, I wouldn't quite call it that, Miss Weasley, since I haven't actually threatened you." The promise of a "yet" lay heavily in the air, and Ginny swallowed some of the burning anger clogging her throat. "Good day to you, Miss Weasley," he finished off, turned around and walked away.

_That piece of– !_

The second she surged forward, arms extended to claw out the eyeballs of the dunderheaded git, an arm shot out of the blue and wrapped itself firmly around her waist, halting her struggling form.

"Hold your Hippogriffs, Weaslette," an amused voice spoke near her ear, sending a tendril of surprised recognition curling through her belly.

"Let. Go. Of. Me_,_ Zabini," she snarled up at him, her hand clamping down on his larger one to unfurl the long fingers at her side. The fact that she had recognized him almost instinctively was something both of them noticed but neither was quite ready to give much thought.

He merely chuckled and tsked at her and the action caused a slight vibration from his chest that ran all the way through her body as his warm breath brushed her hair. His grasp loosened infinitesimally without letting go, inflaming her spite. Against the wall of his body, the scent of expensive cologne seeped through the crispy white shirt he wore, and she froze as she became all too aware of the lack of physical distance between them. An odd desire of having his lips press against the sensitive patch of heated skin along her neck hit her dumb in her chest and she squirmed against him.

"_I said_: Let go of me, Zabini," she warned between gritted teeth and he finally eased his hold on her, teasingly, letting her step away from the sturdy enclosure of his frame and catch her breath. She scowled up at him and was met by his usual cool and bored perusal, though it was a mask she'd learned to decipher by now. There were flashes of a piqued curiosity hiding in those dark pools whenever he gazed upon her.

"My, my, if looks could kill," he drawled. "You should be a little more grateful. In fact, I think I just saved you from being thrown in Azkaban for manslaughter. Of the Head Auror, no less. Now, we couldn't have that, could we? The famous Head Girl and war heroine _in jail_?" He tutted.

"_You–_ "

"Ah, yes," he jeered dramatically, "I have saved you once again. It seems to be our fate to meet like this, Weasley, however much we both may wish it otherwise."

'_Saved', my arse_. She snorted indelicately, having no patience for his convoluted talk and still simmering over his overly presumptive 'hands-on'-interception earlier.

"Give me a break," she muttered.

"Gladly," came the sardonic reply. "But that would entail you and I actually staying out of trouble and it hasn't worked out so well, so far, has it?" He quirked an eyebrow and she pressed her lips into a thin line, realizing she had no real retort to his more than accurate description of what had happened to them the past couple of months.

"Yeah, well," she started sullenly, "but _he_–" she pointed incensed down the hallway where the Auror had disappeared, "was being a right tosser, you know!? He still hasn't laid away his suspicions about any of us!" Her chest rose and fell rapidly as her temper boiled. "And then the berk goes on to claim that I have some sort of complex; that I am actually _seeking_ _out_ danger – or asking for trouble or whatever – which apparently entails getting my head knocked in by a bloody Bludger!"

He fixed his eyes upon her, this time serious, masking his surprise. "What happened?"

"What, you haven't already heard?" she replied in disbelief that the rumours of the hexed Bludger hadn't reached the entire school already. Zabini's awaiting demeanour told her he really _was _uninformed of today's episode. She rubbed her neck. "Um, well, I sort of flew into some trouble at the pitch today..." By the impatient flicker that crossed his gaze, she quickly reworded her account. "Someone hexed a Bludger. To hurt me or likely even...kill me. I'm not sure," she stammered bluntly and carefully observed his reaction.

Though Zabini could not be called expressive, unless he turned the charm on that is, certain tell-tale reactions escaped his otherwise carefully controlled behaviour on the rare occasion: A slight widening of his large cat-like eyes. A flash in those obsidian orbs. A twitch by the corner of his full mouth. A muscle ticking in the cut jaw. (With cheekbones such as his, he really should be more careful than he already was. Despite all his likely excessive me-time in front of the mirror, was he even aware how much they could give away?).

"I see," he simply said, in a way she could only gather as him being stunned.

She looked away with a small shrug. "Yeah."

How _was_ one to respond really? With 'Are you OK'? Perhaps, but she was tired of the same platitudes time and time again. Though she understood perfectly where the sentiment was coming from, she had been on the receiving end of them ever since...ever since Fred ...

_Besides_, clearly she was OK. Shaken, mad even, but OK. And it wasn't like she and Zabini were each other's 'guard dogs' or anything. It wasn't like they needed to care or worry about each other. They certainly didn't need to verbalize it and constantly affirm it with each other. She shuddered inwardly at the saccharine imagery. Actually, the only thing that linked them was basic human decency and a sense of moral obligation. An unspoken agreement that they were in this thing together (merely by chance) ever since that Dementor turned up out of the blue in the Shrieking Shack. If looking out for one another meant protecting their own hides then why not?

Yes, she concluded with herself: It's about survival. About getting out on the other side as whole as possible and still be able to look yourself in the eyes in the mirror each morning. That much she had discovered about herself and the former nemesis and serpent in front of her since being thrown together with him.

She observed him as he gazed back.

"So," he prolonged the vowel, "I guess it... _didn't_ succeed?"

With a wry mien, she quipped, "It didn't, no. For some reason, every Counter-Spell I threw it glanced off, and I managed to evade it for as long as possible until Warwick swooped in and put a stop to it."

"Warwick?" he repeated in mild surprise. She nodded and he hummed. "Always there to save the day, isn't she?" It felt like more of an observation than a question.

"Zelenko was there, too," Ginny interjected. _Why did I say that? Why should he care?_

"Ah, your Professor," Blaise intoned smugly.

Ginny harrumphed, crossing her arms. "He is _not my_ Professor." _You know he isn't_, she continued in her head. _You heard it. You said it._ Blaise's small infuriating smirk only twitched from her reaction. "Besides, he was behaving entirely odd."

"Was he now?" His way of picking at things with his Slytherin scepticism was starting to get on her nerves, even though she might even share some of his suspicions.

"Yes, well," she replied tartly, "he wasn't exactly humble about his role in witnessing the Bludger go after me and then alerting the Aurors. Just in time, mind you. Most of all, his presence there was just odd."

"At the pitch?"

"Yep. It was training day today and as you might have noticed, it has been raining cats and dogs. Storm and thunder and all that. Not a favourite weather of mine to play in, but well, you know; you've got to do it."

He gave a low hum in agreement. "Certainly _not_ a weather you'd want to be a spectator in, for any reason other than the Finals."

"_Exactly_," she said. "So: What was he doing there?"

They looked at each other in pregnant silence and whatever small and insignificant reservations they each had had about the guy but brushed off at the time, suddenly re-emerged and connected like pieces of a puzzle in the space between them.

It was as if a cloud lifted from a part of her mind. If Zabini had noticed something too...

She was about to open her mouth when Blaise emitted a low grunt in the back of his throat, looked around and grasped her arm, squashing her protests. He led her to the tapestry halfway along the corridor concealing a narrow staircase leading to the ground-floor. Here he pulled the drapery aside and pushed her behind it. She stumbled a bit in the dark, aware of the staircase just by the edge of her feet.

Well, at least, they could be sure to have no eavesdroppers here. Hardly no one used it as a short cut.

Casting a temporary Muffliato on their surroundings, Blaise turned to her, crossing his long arms. "So. You think he had something to do with all this?" Ginny knew he referred to the Dementor, Dorne and the hexed Bludger appearing within close time range of each other.

She shrugged. "Not sure. Maybe? He _is_ the newest member among the staff and no one seems to know a lot about him."

"Yeah, blame it on the new guy," he said in a mock-cheer. "I like this kind of game. So original."

She ignored his gibe and thought for a bit. "Maybe McGonagall would know? She must be the one to employ him, right?"

"And _no one_ fools the old goat."

She raised a caustic eyebrow at him. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, sorry about that, but you can't disagree with me on the fact that McGonagall is one tough nut to crack," he retorted drily. "If someone tries to fake their way into the school in some pathetic fashion like our possible pretender, 'Mr. Zelenko', here, she would see right through it."

She sighed but silently agreed with him. "Well," she started, "_you_ can't disagree with _me_ that you don't like him particularly much either?"

After a beat, Blaise scratched his neck, and surprised her by relenting. "I guess this means we should keep an eye out for him – without _him_ seeing _us_ spying on _him_." With a long-suffering sigh, he drove a hand down across his face. "Boy, am I getting tired of all this shite."

"You're one to talk," she snorted. "You're not the one who gets tailed by him or has to deal with his 'winning' personality each time."

"Oh, come now," he responded with a sarcastic edge. "It's not exactly like being chased around by Quasimodo, is it now?"

She pulled a face. "Even if he was the most handsome serial killer in the world, it's still a hard pass, thank you very much."

He merely chuckled and Ginny felt like strangling him. Why did everything have to be so frustratingly casual and nonchalant with him? Couldn't he see the seriousness in this without it having to be about saving his skin or his reputation for once? Which, by the way, it kind of still was...

"What about our shared stalker, the 'Head of All Aurors'?" Blaise jeered, interrupting her bitter train of thought. "Isn't he one to consider when we start to take special interest in Zelenko, all of a sudden? And don't tell me that hawk won't have his eyes and ears – and that _includes_ all his little lackeys – glued on us until the end of our days."

She huffed under her breath. "Don't be so dramatic." He just sent her a knowing look. "OK, yeah, I agree that he is not one to be underestimated," she bit out, feeling frustrated by the continuous tightening of the snare they had walked into.

At least, Blaise wasn't _entirely_ indifferent to their situation.

She worried her lower lip; an action Blaise wasn't entirely indifferent to either but his shifted attention went over her head. "I guess we just need to be careful, don't we?" She emitted a low groan. "More careful than we've been so far around the Aurors."

He pursed his lips, only halfway believing her plan. "And Warwick?"

"What about her?"

"Well, she seems a little looser than Rowe –" here Ginny raised her brow to new heights, "I said 'a little'," he harrumphed, and then, more under his breath, "honestly, _no one_ should go around measuring scales of gaiety based on bloody Aurors. My point is; she could prove an even greater risk."

Ginny threw him an exasperated mien. "Get to your point, Zabini. Stop talking in riddles."

He growled. "I'll get there if you just stop fucking interrupting me."

"_Fine_."

"Fine." He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just don't underestimate her either. She is obviously put on our 'case' by Rowe, and I have an odd inkling that she will integrate herself more firmly into our lives from now on. And before we know it, _bam_, she'll have just the right piece of material to incriminate us."

She rolled her eyes. "Again with the dramatics. Besides, only the guilty fear judgment – and _we are not guilty_."

"I'm serious, little Weaslette," he bit back. "I don't think you've quite got the seriousness of the situation."

Gaping at him, her lungs felt stifled in the tight space. "I understand it perfectly well, Zabini. In fact," she returned, poking one finger into his chest, firm muscle twitching beneath the fabric, "I think _you_ are the one who hasn't quite got the seriousness of the situation."

"She's a wild card. Admit it." He said it with such conviction, she almost believed him. Regarding her with a deadpan expression, he noted, "You've come to respect her, haven't you? Especially after today."

Swallowing, she glanced away, and taking her silence as a 'yes', Blaise let her stew in her own inner turmoil. They stood there for a while, still a bit too close for comfort, brooding on their shared problems accumulating.

Seemingly fed up by the gloomy atmosphere, Blaise uncrossed his arms. "So," he droned again, stepping closer, practically crowding her with his bigger body within the small space between the tapestry and the staircase. "You're _sure_ you are feeling alright after your little near-death-experience? Nothing I should be worried about?" There was a glint in his almond-shaped eyes, like a cat playing with its prey, enjoying watching it squirm underneath its claws. Or he was merely trying to suss her out; ensuring his own arse was covered given today's event? She could never rightly tell when he was like this.

Apparently, they weren't quite done distrusting one another.

Making sure to guard herself against any further bodily contact, she crossed her own arms and glared up at him. "_Quite_ sure, Zabini. But thanks for the concern. I really appreciate it," she retorted acidly.

He drew back a little, surprise and amusement oozing from behind his cold mask, regarding her a bit before drawling, "Well, then. I guess matters here are finished?"

"For now." It was stated airily but with enough weight behind the words to remind him of the seriousness behind their agreement.

He nodded, apparently getting the message, though the amusement hadn't quite slipped his aristocratic features. With a mock-salute, he turned and stepped down the narrow stairs, wordlessly lifting the Muffliato. "See ya, Weasley," came his smooth baritone as he descended and disappeared down the steps.

Expelling a loud sigh, Ginny leaned back against the wall for a second before righting herself and whipping the tapestry aside to step out into the still empty corridor.

She had only walked a couple of steps when she felt a peculiar sensation of being watched. Stopping for a second, her brow furrowed as she turned to take in her surroundings. They lay just as empty and quiet as before. Shaking off the feeling – Hogwarts was, after all, haunted by several known ghosts and who knew what gossip ran among the paintings – she continued down towards the other end, wondering whether she was getting truly paranoid or had just developed some sixth sense since the war.

Maybe they were just two sides of the same coin...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clears throat* I'm not going to apologize for Blaise's crass language in this one. If you thought he's was all mellowed by now, well, you thought wrong. Not entirely, but hey, he's a complex bloke who used to be quite the arse, and you don't just simply change the stripes of a tiger, do you?


	25. Misfortune seldom comes alone

Tabbing her pen against the paper, Ginny finally finished off the last sentence of her Transfiguration essay and tossed the pen on the table.

Her mind played back to the run-in with that tosser of a Head Auror and his jarring threat, and whether or not he could be in earnest. He certainly seemed like the type who followed through. Shuddering lightly, she wondered if their plan would hold up. Admittedly, it was grasped out of the blue. Spying on Zelenko simply because he was a slick sort of type seemed a bit far-fetched. How could he possibly have connections to the Dark Arts or Voldemort, for that matter? Really, what did they have to base their suspicions on?

Pulling back with a sigh, she stretched her sore muscles. She had been stiff ever since the incident with the Bludger, and being tied up in excessive homework and extra-curricular Head Girl activities didn't exactly help relieve any leftover tension, nor give her a whole lot of leisure time. She hardly remembered the last time she had been able to read a book in front of a fireplace without going out like a light within the first five sentences of the page.

Now, she sat in her quarters, on a Friday afternoon, apprehensively waiting for the evening to come. Once again, she had no idea how Parvati had persuaded her to go to yet another party at the school.

No matter how much Ginny tried to reason with herself that she had too much on her mind to ever bother with a House party ever again, apparently her will had little strength left and she relented before she even tried arguing otherwise. Or, well, she _had_, but Parvati gave her that whole speech about letting loose and having fun in midst of all the worries, and so, in the end, Ginny's mouth had taken on its own life and promised the twin that she'd show up for a couple of hours. To a _costume_ party, no less.

Ginny pinched the bridge of her nose. On the one hand, she longed to let go of whatever dark shadows that hung over her head for the last two years; the effects of alcohol, loud music and festive mood of her schoolmates still having its nostalgic pull despite everything. On the other hand, she also _feared_ letting go. Totally. Completely. Even for a couple hours. Hours which easily could extend to more than a night, if she knew herself well.

It was as if she had gotten used to those shadows. It scared her more than ever; the thought that they had become her burden and her comfort; a way to pull away from the living and breathing world around her. Again, not in terms of giving up life _literally_, but slowly isolating herself and her mind; compartmentalizing and focusing in on the only long-term aspect of life which she could bare to focus on: Work. Work at school and work afterwards; Quidditch... and whatever followed.

She couldn't really allow herself to go elsewhere in her mind. Not right now, at least. Retelling the past to the younger students wasn't the same; oddly enough, it acted as a gateway to be at a scholar's distance to such sensitive subjects as the ones she had experienced firsthand. And dealing with children was easier than dealing with herself.

But she couldn't wholly allow herself to open the floodgates either, so to speak. Which was a high-risk scenario once she had enough liquor poured down her throat. And this up-coming party certainly sounded like a scenario where people would, well, binge. The theme was literally called 'Glam-Wizard-Rock', and given the decade it referred to, it could only go wrong.

_Ugh_. Since when had she become such a killjoy?

She had asked the Head Boy, Clarence Attwater, along – not as a date but just to have the added company. It had just flown out of her mouth one afternoon when they had been the only ones left in library, making sure no underage students hid in the Restricted Section. He had accepted the invitation, perhaps a little too eagerly, making her sigh inwardly, briefly regretting it. Clarence was sweet, intelligent and even-tempered. She didn't want to mislead him. However, she had to move on with her life, leave her shell and socialize more. She realized that now. And Clarence...well, he was an obvious choice to bring along to a party. An easy choice.

Parvati had practically squealed when she heard, as usual making a big deal out of it. She had no qualms pointing out more superficial qualities about the Head Boy, such as him being about the same height as Harry (though that's where similarities ended, or, rather, Ginny was quick to shut them down), with wavy, honey blonde hair and even sporting a gold earring in one ear. And even though Ginny certainly didn't deny the fact that he was cute, she just wasn't interested...that way. Besides, it wasn't a date. She had made that clear to him (and Parvati as well), but she feared Clarence perhaps carried a small hope that the evening was a start of something else.

_Crud_. She shouldn't have asked him _at all_, should she? Why was it so difficult for boys and girls to go as _just_ _friends_, without any speculation or misread signals? If it had been Luna in her place, there would be no problems. The blonde witch was practically oblivious to how she was perceived or affected other people, and Ginny both missed and envied that. Most importantly, she missed her best friend. She started feeling ashamed how little attention she had actually given her travelling friend, other than some selfish thoughts here and there; longing for their company but, deep down, mostly feeling resentful and abandoned by the old gang.

Groaning, she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, exhausted beyond measure. How well had she fared on an overall scale this past school year? She was never satisfied with the expression she met each morning and evening in the mirror, especially not the pallor of her skin which was colourless, almost sallow, her freckles non-existent. Her mum would have a fit if she saw her now. And though she ate (she had to in order not to faint mid-air during Quidditch training), she felt drained most of the time. Not just physically but mentally. Emotionally. She had all year, and she had started wondering if she would ever begin to feel a change coming.

From inside.

She wouldn't – _couldn't_ – wait around for her friends to come back and cheer her up, nor for her mum to fuss around her or for her dad to worry. She couldn't wait around for _anyone_ to come and pick her up by the bootstraps! She had to do it herself.

Sighing and pushing back from the chair she had been ruminating on, she got up and went to her wardrobe.

_OK, Gin. What's it going to be?_

**X**

Tonight's event took place in the former Slytherin Common Room, now residence of the House of _Environment and Healing_, though its benign name couldn't be said to fairly represent its students. Really, they were as colourful a lot as Luna's sense of fashion.

To Ginny's surprise not much had changed about the place. Its dungeon-like atmosphere still filled her with a sense of claustrophobia, while the greenish and only natural light from the surrounding Great Lake did little to help the oppressive coldness that crept over her as she entered (not to speak of 'the view' from the windows which took some getting used to). They really needed a new decorator about the place, though, to be honest, she wasn't sure how much could be done about its morose quality, and she thanked Merlin for having her new House placed in the old Gryffindor Tower, closer to the sky.

Still, and once again, she had to hand it to its new inhabitants: They knew how to throw a party. Ginny was particularly curious how the organizers had persuaded McGonagall to keep both teachers and Aurors at bay during this evening. Understandable, after the latest incidents and increased supervision of the school, everyone seemed to take full advantage of an adult-free theme party. To say people were well beyond exalted was an understatement: A loud, upbeat tempo blared throughout the closely crowded room, girls dressed in little to nothing gyrated their hips on the dance floor as they slithered down their dance partners' bodies, students who didn't seem to be able to keep their hands off each other, roaring along on popular lyrics, jumping up and down, playing drinking games and challenging each other in the most creative, obscene ways to drink the most amount of alcohol.

"Well, this is..." she muttered to herself, lacking the right words to describe the hedonistic scenery.

"The belly of the beast?" A dry voice spoke from behind her before its owner came up to stand beside her.

She turned her head, surprised that is was Theodore Nott, and regarded his profile. He looked worse for wear and clearly didn't need to dress up for the occasion; he practically looked like a reject from a punk rock vampire band.

"Nott."

He took a glance around their underground surroundings. "Strange to be back," he mused, as if both addressing her and no one in particular.

She observed him for a second. "Miss it much?"

Theo shrugged and then walked off without a word though she hardly knew him well enough to feel offended by his lack of manners. She watched him shoulder his way through the crowd and disappear just as a new song was put on, a popular one, and the crowd went nuts. Ginny backed away from the trampling of feet when the people who weren't already dancing rushed to the dance floor, and then edged her way around the room, heading towards the bar which was, more or less, abandoned at the moment.

"Ginger beer and Firewhiskey, please," she ordered over the counter to a girl dressed as 1970s' gothic rock singer Vespertine Lacrosse from Vespertine and the Spectres. The drink was handed to her a couple of seconds later and, sipping from it, she turned to watch the steaming crowd. Soon the music changed again, though no one seemed to mind, this time to something slower, more smooth and seductive, to put it mildly. At some point, she couldn't help raising her eyebrows. Well, put a bunch of drunk and randy teenagers in one room with no adult supervision and you're practically asking for it...

She gave a wry smile. _It's not like you're so innocent yourself._

For a while, she just stood there, watching the party unfold while finishing her drink, feeling the whiskey warming and buzzing in her veins. And then, after what seemed an eternity, through the crowd she spotted –

_Oh_.

Whatever Blaise had decided to wear tonight, it was far from what Ginny had expected or ever could have imagined. She'd always pecked him for holding up to his somewhat conservative beliefs and going for a traditional style that suited his Wizarding class. Of course, she knew that said style didn't exclude flamboyance and creativity – they were rich people, after all – but all she had ever seen him wear were perfectly tailored school uniforms and expensive robes. Simple, elegant and vain. It matched his person and complimented his natural beauty. She'd never seen him let himself loose, though.

Not before tonight.

Ginny wasn't sure if she managed to stop herself from openly gaping.

He was dressed in... well, first of all, you could hardly call it _dressed_; his lean torso clad in nothing but a black satin vest, showcasing his defined chest and arms, down to his tapered waist, and – _Merlin help her_ – what could only be deemed as the _right_ kind of bell-bottomed leather pants.

Suddenly she both regretted and gloated in her own choice of wardrobe: A dark-red sequin trouser suit with a deep neckline and high-heeled boots, while her hair was parted in the middle and kept straight and loose. An altogether very bold, mature choice, she had told herself. (OK, Parvati had once again done most of the styling and persuasion).

Only... She hadn't counted on Blaise's appearance this evening. _Especially_ this.

She felt her throat go dry as her eyes unwittingly took the road up and down his body, swaying to the hypnotic beats of the music.

Shaking her head, she moved away from the bar and around the crowd, trying to get away from the direct line of vision to the Italian on the dance floor which her eyes involuntarily kept darting towards.

"Ginny?"

She had almost walked straight into the Head Boy.

"Oh. Clarence, hi." She faltered, unsure if he was godsend or the last person she wanted to deal with right now. They _had_ agreed to meet up at the party, but she wasn't really feeling amiable.

"You alright?"

"Yeah. Sure," she replied with a forced mien.

"Um, okay," Clarence's brow furrowed. "I'll... I'll just go and get us a couple of drinks." He patted her upper arm in a way that set her teeth on edge and walked off in the direction of the bar.

Restless, she continued round the dancing mass, determined and irresolute at the same time. Damn it, if she couldn't keep her gaze from seeking out that bloody Slytherin! It felt like she was going in circles. And she couldn't just leave now that Clarence had seen her.

She stopped and stared.

Belatedly she realized Blaise was with someone else; a clearly infatuated girl of indistinguishable appearance since she was partly hidden by the crowd, but the way he looked down at her, dancing and smiling his wolfish grin, eyes glinting knowingly... and now Ginny noticed he had painted his eyes with kohl, making the dark almond shapes stand out even darker. Even his full lips had a faint shade of colour, drawing attention to the perfect shape of his mouth. One golden earring (she'd never noticed he was pierced either) dangled from his left earlobe, and around his neck and wrists were a various assortment of tasteful jewellery that fitted the outfit and its owner to its entirety. So complementary to his physique, his persona that you could hardly call it 'letting himself loose' and yet was all more..._surprising_ – if there even was a word for it – simply because it was _Blaise_ wearing it.

He always pulled you in like a moth to a flame.

If you liked that sort of thing, of course.

Which she didn't.

She snorted internally. Hypersexualizing people was _not_ a hobby of hers.

Besides, he managed do that _perfectly_ well all by himself –

_Oh, gods_. He had spotted her, eyes flashing with recognition along with a small barring of teeth, and Ginny held her breath. Without taking his gaze from her, he bent his head to his dancing companion, whispered a few words accompanied by a disarming smile and the smitten girl looked somewhat perturbed by being ditched but clearly his charms did the final work. Then he was off, moving through the crowd towards Ginny and she felt the world suddenly zoned in on the small trail left between him and her.

And then he was there, right in front of her in what she would like to describe as 'all of his glory'.

"Well, hello there, Red. So glad you could come," he smirked, his darkened eyes taking a slow, appreciative trip down her body, though it didn't feel like a leer (_how_ did he do that?), and she fought to suppress a shiver, her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth.

"Er, you look..." She forced her eyes to stay on his face and not letting them drift downwards.

Lifting an eyebrow, there was a husky chuckle from the back of his throat. "Ah. Posing isn't the _only_ thing I'm good at, Weaslette," he drawled, his gaze glinting suggestively in time with the gold earring in his left ear.

Was he entirely sober himself?

She gulped, recalling her old remark – the only time she had spoken to him before all this – and felt somewhat ashamed how the tables had turned.

Not that he wasn't vain anymore, but–

_Ugh! Merlin's sake, Gin, get a grip! He has absolutely no power over you!_

She threw him a baleful glare. "Keep your innuendos to yourself. I'd hate to rearrange that pretty face of yours, Zabini."

His painted, sculpted mouth jerked into a crooked smile. "My, my. If we aren't particularly feisty this evening. Someone got out of bed on the wrong side?"

How could he make _everything_ sound lewd?

Shooting him another look. "Sarcasm will get you nowhere, Zabini."

He feigned hurt. "And here I was trying to show concern and compassion for my fellow student. Isn't that what you former Gryffindors all salivate over?"

She had no idea how this conversation had gone from zero to one hundred, all of a sudden. She only felt... _incensed_. "Excuse me if your reputable track record regarding girls doesn't exactly make me want to trust you, Zabini."

He arched a curious eyebrow, a new-felt spark to his eyes. "So. You admit you _are_ interested?"

Dumbstruck, she quickly retorted. "What? No."

"Who is interested in what?"

"Clarence!" For a moment, she had forgotten all about the Head Boy who appeared beside her with drinks in his hands and a quizzical look on his face. "Um, we were, I mean, Zabini here was just saying we should be more, er, _vigilant_ at parties like this and that... he'd like to volunteer helping keeping a look-out for anything suspicious during the night." A tiny cough on her right notified her of Blaise's amused scepticism. She glared daggers at him, eyes narrowing when she saw his lips pull into a fraction of a smile.

Clarence didn't seem fully convinced that the former Slytherin would even suggest nor volunteer with such a thing. "Right," he said, eyeing the two of them before extending one of the glasses towards her. "Here's your drink, Ginny." She accepted it and he sipped from his own as an awkward silence fell between the three of them. She could sense Blaise's cool eyes studying the other wizard who, in turn, ignored the scrutiny and hummed along with the song playing in the background. Sometimes, it was so blatant that the Head Boy had been a former Hufflepuff.

"Well then, I'm off," Blaise announced flatly, sounding distracted. "Enjoy yourselves." Ginny observed that his line of gaze was directed somewhere else as he walked past them, curious to what had gotten his attention.

Clarence emitted a low huff. "Huh. That bloke's got some nerve."

Ginny swivelled her eyes back to him. "Excuse me?"

The other wizard shrugged, his oddly suspicious gaze following the Italian making his way through the jam-packed room with minimal effort.

She frowned at his shifty attitude. What was _his_ problem?

Choosing to ignore him, Ginny kept skimming the crowd to get an idea of where Blaise had gone. At last, she spotted his dark head at the other end of the room, slightly bent towards someone –

_Oh_. He was talking to Paloma Podsworth. And from the few glimpses Ginny got, the other witch didn't exactly look thrilled by the conversation. She wondered if Blaise actually had the decency to go apologize to the girl for all his ill treatment of her.

_Huh. That would be a first. And what had inspired this sudden set of morals?_

The longer she observed the exchange, the more things seemed to escalate however. Apparently, apologizing in a genuine, repentant way wasn't Blaise's strong suit. _Surprise_. And by the looks of it, he seemed more and more desperate to find an exit; his temper (which she knew all too well by now) flaring under that carefully coloured mask of his.

Huffing under her breath, Ginny shot a quick glance at Clarence and was bemused to see that he too was following the exchange across the room with an intent interest.

_Clarence knew Paloma? Jealous much?_

Ginny chewed her lower lip in contemplation as a mad idea came to the forefront of her mind. Maybe she could spare _all_ of them a night of continued embarrassments?

Downing the dull drink she had been given by Clarence, she grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, much to the blonde's surprise. "Come on," she growled, tugging him along. "I need something stronger if we're doing this."

Clarence followed, nonplussed. "Doing what?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take partial credit for the figure Vespertine Lacrosse and her band Vespertine and the Spectres. I couldn't find a suitable 1970s band in the HP universe, so I took inspiration from Siouxsie Sioux from Siouxsie and the Banshees.


	26. Resolution

_Minutes earlier..._

Momentarily prying his eyes from the captivating sight of Ginny Weasley in dress-up, Blaise looked up and, by chance, spotted a flock of Seventh Year girls by one of the large windows to the lake. Amidst their chatting heads he recognized Paloma's dirty-blonde hair and snub-nosed profile.

Well, he might as well get this over with, and he felt sober enough to deal with it. With an inward sigh, he ditched the far more interesting company of Red (notwithstanding her ill-chosen chaperone for the evening) and made his way across the room.

Approaching the group, most of them had – like a flock of bloodhounds – already sniffed out his coming from a distance and shot him everything from dirty to apprehensive and curious looks. Meanwhile, Paloma studiously ignored him.

_Hm. How predictable._

"Paloma," he addressed her dispassionately, giving up the pretense. "A word?" Paying no heed to the slighted stares from the other girls, he patiently waited for a reaction of some kind (preferably the _workable_ kind) from the former Hufflepuff.

"_What_, Blaise?" she snarled in his general direction.

He pursed his lips. "Privately?" When she simply sent him a pointed glance, he lifted his eyebrows. "_Please_."

The girl looked towards her friends, who answered with a variety of suspicious, questioning looks, before she omitted a dramatic sigh, apparently relenting.

"Alright, _fine_."

Well, 'privately' was a bit optimistic put. They settled for walking a couple of steps away and out of earshot from the other girls.

"Look, Podsworth –"

"_Don't_ call me that, Blaise!" She turned on him, glowering. "It's not a business transaction. Would you drop the act?"

He gritted his teeth. "_Fine_. I apologize for my behaviour. What more do you want from me?"

"_Gods_, Blaise! You really are a novice at this, aren't you? Saying sorry? Admitting to it?"

His lips thinned, having had about enough. "Will you stop it," he hissed under his breath. "I'm ending this. _For good_."

"Well, isn't that something!" the girl raved. "Just wait; one day you'll come crawling back and ask for it again. Don't think I don't know how you operate, Blaise! I swear I'll–"

"Why, Podsworth! You're here, too?!" An overly cheerful voice made both their heads snap towards its owner. Ginny Weasley, of all people, appeared through the crowd with a baffled Head Boy in tow. "Isn't that funny?" the redhead continued brightly. "I was just talking to Attwater here about you, because neither of us could find _any_ of you –," she let out a low _pfft_, tossing her flaming locks over one shoulder with a casual gesture to their surroundings (if Blaise's hadn't been so stunned by her sudden interruption, he would have commented on her theatrics) as she carried on with a passive-aggressive sweetness that would have rivalled that of Pansy Parkinson's, "but _then_ I remembered you used to _date_ my boyfriend, and guess what? Here you are – talking to him!" Her caramel eyes swivelled directly to Blaise's with such a force that all he could do was to stare dumbly at her.

_Boyfriend?_

What the hell was she up to?

"Um... what?" Paloma said, glancing back and forth between Ginny and Blaise, wholly confused, and he didn't blame her. They all looked at Ginny like she'd sprouted a second head.

The latter just kept smiling, regarding them with a smooth expression. Beside her, Clarence fidgeted, obviously being put on the spot. However, from the way his eyes kept darting towards Paloma, Blaise at least gathered that the Head Boy wasn't entirely _un_involved in the charade.

"Well?" Weasley prompted innocently. "What were you two talking about all the way over here? Nothing serious, I hope?"

Paloma scowled, likely having a hard time believing Ginny was in earnest about her liaison with Blaise, her voice hard as flint. "I guess we were about done here. _Weren't_ we, Blaise?"

He shrugged, frankly relieved. "I guess."

With a tightening to her lips, the girl gave a small huff. Ginny wondered if Paloma – in all her demonstrativeness – was even aware how she had turned infinitesimally in the direction of the Head Boy. However, none of them said anything. They just stood there, looking at anything but each other.

_Right. Change of tactics._

"How funny that we had each other's partners this whole time, isn't it?" Ginny winked at Clarence whose ears turned pink, and Paloma looked questioningly towards the Head Boy. Blaise merely cocked an incredulous eyebrow at Ginny's faux guise which she promptly ignored.

She smiled sweetly towards Paloma, nudging Clarence forward and, at the same time, stepping up to Blaise with an intimate familiarity that raised his eyebrow even higher, grabbed his arm and tugged him towards a nearby armchair with little resistance. Before Blaise knew it, she had placed him in it – with herself comfortably perched on his lap.

"Anything else?" She turned her head halfway towards the others with a coolly expectant mien. They both just gaped.

_Gee. As if everybody in this room haven't already imagined and gossiped about us 'doing it' for ages now_, Ginny growled in her mind, careful to keep her mask in place.

Meanwhile, Blaise was having trouble distracting himself from the way her body was now pressed against his; pert bum situated in his lap, a warm hand against the nape of his neck and legs dangling over one armrest. He wouldn't call her an excellent actor but she was quick on the uptake. He had to give it up for her Slytherin wiles. And if it was a show she wanted in order to get rid of them, he'd gladly give her a show.

"So," Clarence trailed off in the background, "how did... this come about?" clearly perplexed to witness two former enemies suddenly in the arms of each other. Paloma most of all looked like she wanted to make herself scarce.

With his foggy brain on standby, smug satisfaction crept into Blaise. "Well," he drawled languidly from his position in the chair, only partly aware that his hand had travelled down Red's side, taking pleasure in the mild and likely involuntary shudder he elicited, before it came to rest lightly on her behind. She shot him a glance, barely able to hide her startled reaction. "I guess I just came to realize I had been an arse to everyone undeserving, and Weasley here was the only one able to knock some sense into me."

Blaise returned her stare steadily, one corner of his lips curved up at the end, punctuated by a reassuring thumb caressing her hip in languorous strokes.

Ginny didn't have the energy to feel aggravated by the satisfaction he took from this. She had initiated it, after all. But she hadn't expected him to give in to the play-act so quickly. Hell, she hadn't expected _herself_ to give into it with so little effort. There was a familiarity with which they slipped into the roles; the way he held her that sent her mind and senses reeling. She felt, at the same time, tense and relaxed; having no clue what to do next and also perfectly content with her current position. And something about his tone of voice told her he wasn't bluffing about the truth behind those words. His eyes, fixated on hers, held a glint in their depths, like a precious stone hiding at the bottom of a creek.

"Let bygones be bygones?" she added in a light flirtatious banter, though her words were no less true, and she hid the tremulous smile threatening to emerge. His shrewd eyes caught the action nevertheless and, unknowingly, she bit her lip, hand anchored at his neck, as she watched his gaze give way for a darker emotion. Having completely forgotten about their surroundings and eventual onlookers, instead focused in on the strange intent in his eyes, she felt a pull towards him, mirroring his, the rapid beat of a pulse, a humming in her veins, nerves prickling towards the edge of where she stopped and he began. She couldn't tell any longer. He hadn't taken his eyes from her, his breath mingling with hers, brushing her skin, before his lips pressed against hers, connecting in an answer to something they had both asked for a long time. Alcohol thrummed in her system, her skin buzzing lethargic and painfully aware of the exposure of his bared arms, the sturdy feel of his chest. It shouldn't be so easy... 'just like that' for her to give in. He was still a bigot. A stupid, womanizing arse. Insufferable Slytherin... wedged into her life and hers to–

Her fingers seemed to have their own lives and followed the long, defined lines of his muscles; the firm warmth of his skin threatening to burn her up. Grabbing hold of her clothed back, he pressed her closer into his mouth, humming pleasantly in the back of his throat, feeling the vibrations from their aligned upper bodies. Soon she found herself having shifted position, straddling him, never breaking the rhythm. Drawing back to finally come up for air, she found herself unable to tear her eyes away from his, falling deeper and irrevocably into...

She hesitated for a split-second, about to say something, _anything_, though she had no idea what she could possibly say, when she was stopped by his hand lifting to the side of her face, a feather-like stroke against her cheek. The action pulled her from the trance, like the snap of a string, momentarily freezing and sending a spike of awareness into them both. His eyes widened, and she pulled away and stumbled out of the chair, quickly standing up along with him. Taking a step back, she rubbed her palms against her thighs, as if trying to rub the buzzing nerves out of her skin. Standing there, staring at each other, their surroundings came back to them in beat with their pulses; the indistinct chatter, the dense air, the shifting lights and the blare of the music. Around them the partygoers filled every space imaginable, drunkenly stumbling across each other, whooping and laughing. Yet, all of that had blurred into the background. For an unshakable moment they had completely forgotten about their surroundings.

Paloma and Clarence had gone.

How long had it been? It could be seconds or minutes. _An hour_?

Had anyone else taken notice of them?

Cheeks burning, she opened and closed her mouth, coming up short. Blaise seemed guarded though there was a raw emotion hovering in those dark and usually glacial orbs as he observed her.

She could still feel the searing pressure of his lips and arms against her.

_What is he waiting for?_

She couldn't take this. Couldn't stand being in the room any longer.

"I –" Her voice came out hoarse and she briefly closed her eyes. "I-I think I need some air." Flailing and turning on her heels, she walked straight into the moving mass of people, staggering slightly.

"Hey– wait –" Ginny heard his baritone voice call out, a rough edge to it and she shivered. Its effect made her frown as she weakly pushed past people.

"I'm not drunk," she slurred, mostly to herself, and pouted in determination.

"Yes, you are." She gasped. Zabini, apparently having followed behind, exhaled softly through his nose and walked up to her. "Here." He held her arm steady to guide her the rest of the way out through the crowd. Every throbbing beat of her pulse felt like she was underwater (which, given the location, was quite literal), every nerve in her body painstakingly aware of Zabini's tall presence beside her. She hoped he wasn't expecting a continuation outside, but even through her muddled senses he seemed at a more heedful distance. Besides, she couldn't exactly deny him to get some air as well. He looked like he needed it.

Due to the pressing crowd, they were momentarily blocked near the entrance. Nearby, two Sixth Year boys were vigorously making out with each other and Blaise must have caught sight of them too. He met her eyes for a moment. Ginny flushed and quickly looked away.

Once outside, she ripped her arm out of his light grip, stumbling a bit in the process which prompted him to reach for her again.

"Will you stop that?" she snapped, voice wobbling. Her brown eyes glistened as she looked pointedly away.

He stopped. He had only followed her because... well, because she could barely _walk,_ and he didn't know what else to do. Honestly, he felt stifled inside that room anyway.

Taking her in, he swallowed, feeling the sudden urge to cub her cheek again, and, this time, run a thumb over her soft lower lip, hear her sharp intake of breath...

"Don't do that," came her small voice. He blinked and focused in on her eyes again, unable to determine the expression they held: Hopeful? Apprehensive? Regretful? All of them?

"Do what?" he asked.

"Don't look at me like that."

There was a beat, his eyes drifting to her mouth again.

"What if I want to?" he breathed in quiet admittance, surprising himself by how the cluttered feeling inside wasn't unequivocally lust and drunkenness. She heard him nonetheless; her eyes widening as he lifted his own to fix them on hers. "Don't you?"

Bewildered, she studied his face but she could find no arrogance, no coldness there; the layered question echoing, suspended in the air:

_Don't you?_

"I see you two are at it again," a familiar, jaded voice interrupted, jolting them from whatever spell had formed between them. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Teddy?" Blaise looked up to see his friend coming towards them. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in London?"

Pausing beside him, Theo gave a careless shrug, a slight grimace to his face. "Yeh, well, Muggle London can be frightfully sordid, you know?"

Puzzled to what he referred to, Ginny looked over at Blaise who, in turn, observed his friend with a pensive expression.

"Well, see ya," Theo saluted and walked on.

Blaise stepped forward. "Theo, hold up. I need to talk to you–"

Raising a hand without turning back, Theo waved him off and disappeared around the corner, leaving Blaise staring after him in chagrin.

_Why is he being so difficult?_

"Is... he okay?"

He turned his head back to Ginny. There was a small frown of concern marring her brow as she moved her eyes back to Blaise. Quite on instinct, he wanted to lift a hand to gently smooth over her freckled brow. A warm sensation flooded his stomach (maybe it was the alcohol?) at the thought of her closing her eyes and savouring his touch, likely not fully aware of her action. Remembering how her lips had felt against his just minutes ago, he withheld his hand.

"I hope so." A question started forming in her eyes but he merely shook his head. "You should probably go to bed. It's been a long night."

She regarded him a while longer, then finally relented and turned towards the direction of her quarters. Pausing and looking back over her shoulder, she met his gaze.

"'Night, Blaise."

He nodded. "'Night," he said and watched her go. ..._Ginny_.


	27. Visiting an old friend

"Don't get me wrong, Draco. I'm pleased to see you intact, as always," Blaise said. "But _fuck_ it's cold!"

Draco barked a dry laugh. "Bloody right it is!"

Having to ask for special leave from none other than McGonagall herself, the Headmistress had managed to pull enough strings to let Blaise go to Svalbard for a weekend to visit Draco. On the _one condition_ that he solemnly promised to be as transparent about his visit as possible. Not that he wasn't used to hearing the same old song by now. It may have been his stupidest decision yet, but he wasn't going to let some pompous Auror dictate the rest of his life. A Zabini didn't let himself cow this easily. He would just have to bear the consequences of whatever creative, insinuating accusations Rowe would come up with afterwards.

"What were you even thinking?" Blaise spoke between clattering teeth, stamping his feet to incite warmth back into his frosted toes. Expensive Italian footwear was _not_ designed for this kind of climate.

"Hell if I know!" the blond responded as they continued walking along the outer walls of Durmstrang. "I just needed to get away and finish my NEWTS. This seemed like the obvious choice back then."

Blaise shook his head in incredulity. "But why not choose Beauxbatons instead? At least, _there_ you get temperatures above corpse stage, and you speak French; you could easily manoeuvre your charming ways around that school."

"Aw, missing my charms, are we now, Zabini?" Draco jested with a sharp punch to his bicep, making the Italian respond with an annoyed grunt. Malfoy's antics could be eerily similar to those of Theo's and he wasn't sure he needed _more_ of those.

Expelling a last amused puff of air, Draco rolled his shoulders once more. "I thought about Beauxbatons, but then I decided I couldn't stand the goody-two-shoes snobbery of those frog-eaters."

Surreptitiously, Blaise rolled his eyes at his friend's juvenile display. _That_ hadn't vanished, it seemed. However, under the surface, he suspected Draco's choice had more to do with the French school's post-war canonization of the oldest Delacour sister (now Weasley); a decision that didn't particularly _favoured_ anyone with the name of Malfoy to come join them.

"Besides," the blond beside him continued in admittance, "I _had_ heard rumours about Durmstrang being more... lenient towards wizards who have dappled with the Dark Arts. _Evidently_, it appears." He gave a sneer reminiscent of the old days, but it was highly strange to see it used in a reversed context. Turning the tables on him, he countered. "And if you're so avid about it, Blaise, why didn't _you_ choose Beauxbatons? All those French girls... Practically a walking buffet for you. And you'd be closer to home in every sense."

Blaise ignored the taunt and gave a shrug. "Mainly 'cause of Theo, you know? He's got no one left and is not as well-connected as you and I. He didn't have a lot of options when they took his family estate after Nott Sr. was imprisoned. My returning to Hogwarts seemed the obvious thing, no matter how much I... _dislike_ the place. Besides, you've always known my Italian is better than my French." He winked, lightening the mood, and Draco snorted out loud.

"Yeah. _That_ I do know."

They walked further along the edges of the school, following the rugged trails in the snow. Having once regarded the Scottish Highlands around Hogwarts as barren and desolate, Blaise now had a whole new meaning of the concept as he took in their surroundings.

"So," he drawled after a while. "No Aurors tailing you?"

Draco responded with a huff. "Fuck if I know! Probably. I have no idea." He gave a sharp, futile shrug. "Would honestly be a bit surprised if they _weren't_."

Blaise hummed his bitter agreement. "With the level of interest the smaller _army_ of Aurors at Hogwarts is currently taking in _my_ bloody affairs, I would be surprised if you don't have the collective arsenal of Aurors in Europe stalking you!"

Draco scoffed then seemed to mull over the matter some more. "I have had my suspicions every now and then. But then again, attending Durmstrang, looking over your shoulder becomes second nature."

"Really?" the Italian droned, doubtful even of that.

"It's like going to school with Slytherins _only_. Trust is not a thing to easily come by; you get the feeling everyone is running their own grandiose agendas and you quickly get the gist about how things are done here."

Blaise regarded him raised eyebrows. "Are you, Draco Malfoy, actually saying that the feeling of living out the potential 'dream'-scenario of a Pureblooded world, had Boy Wonder not won the war, is _objectionable_ to you?" He barely withheld the laugh in his voice. "Someone alert the _Prophet_!"

Draco grunted in obvious annoyance. "I'd rather kiss an Acromantula."

"I'm sure that could be arranged in a place like this. Probably into some weird shite here, I'd imagine."

"Oh, come off it, will you!"

Scratching the back of his neck, Blaise breathed a small, incredulous chuckle. "Geesh, Drake; you _have_ changed."

Clearly discomforted now, the other wizard shuffled his feet, face set in a scowl. "Will you _drop it_?!"

"Okay, okay." He held up his hands. "But you must admit, it sounds bloody weird listening to those things coming out of _your_ mouth."

"Yeah, yeah," the blond murmured, quick to change the subject. "What's up with you, by the way? You seem oddly distracted."

_Damn Draco and his shrewd observation skills._

Blaise regained his mask. "I don't know what you're on about, mate. The ice must have gone to your head." _And damn it if I'm not acting exactly like Theo when confronted!_

"Come on, Zabini, I may be blond but I'm not stupid."

"Could have fooled me."

Overlooking the insult, Draco steadfastly continued. "What is it? The Aurors? Theo? A girl? Mommy dearest? Something's the matter, but I just can't seem to read how deep it goes." He eyed him speculatively.

Blaise pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not in the mood for this, Draco."

Determined to poke the bear, the other wizard pursed his lips in contemplation like some psychotherapist. "Maybe _all_ of those things..."

"I see no point in going any further into this."

"_Clearly_, lady trouble."

"Can we just drop the subject?"

"And mommy dearest is always haunting you in some way or another."

"_Draco_..."

"I can't imagine Theo having laid off the booze either."

"Hm."

"But since you brought up the subject of Aurors, I reckon _that's_ the most pressing obstacle at the moment. Am I right?"

"You are right; at the moment, I just want to wring that scrawny neck of yours."

"Ah. It is all coming back to bite you in the arse, isn't it?"

Exhaling heavily, Blaise looked skywards. Clearly, he had brought this upon himself. "I don't know why I came here, frankly."

"I think you just missed me."

"Yes, you have so many amiable traits, people simply cannot stay away."

Draco uttered a small grunt. "Touché."

They continued to walk a bit in silence, before Malfoy finally turned on him. "No, but seriously, mate; I appreciate the visit and all, but what's up? I know you didn't come all the way up here just to chit-chat."

With a relenting sigh, Blaise decided he might as well confide in him. He wasn't about to spill _all_ the details of his and Weasley's little run-ins, though. Especially not the latest one. Draco would merely take full advantage of it if he knew.

"... And if it weren't for that Zelenko sod stirring up shite –"

"Zelenko?" Draco interrupted him near the end of his recount, his brow furrowed. "That sounds... Eastern European. Ukrainian – if I'm not mistaken."

Blaise's ears pricked up. "It does?"

The other wizard hummed with a nod. "Teacher?"

"Yeah, started in the new term. Right wanker, that one."

"Is he now?"

Blaise didn't care much for Draco's insinuating tone nor the way the blond observed him quietly for a second longer than comfortable. "Yes. _He is_." The retort was grated out. "If you met him, you'd agree."

"Oh, so it is not just because he, for some creepy reason, has set his eyes on the She-Weasel that you should feel so disinclined towards his character?"

The Italian smothered the urge to violently wipe the smirk off his friend's face.

"Quit calling her that, Drake, and no, that is not just why. He was a tosser right from the beginning in class. The fact that he has some weird obsession with a student doesn't help, though."

"No?" the pale boy intoned coyly.

"Cut it out! No, it doesn't. If it wasn't for the Dementor, Dorne and a hexed Bludger showing up about the same time as him, I'd let it go over my head as some...inappropriate hero-worshipping on his part. But there's something shady about that guy. Something... off. You said his surname could be Ukrainian?"

"Yes," the blond deadpanned, still regarding him with a curious gleam to his eyes.

Why, oh, why did he have to find friends that possessed the same perceptive qualities as he did?

"Right. Could be a former Durmstrang then," Blaise suggested, choosing to ignore his wariness towards Draco's quick inner deductions. "Couldn't he?"

"Quite possibly, yes." Draco shot him another questioning look. "Where are you going with all this again?"

"Well..." Blaise let the word linger on his tongue, then braced himself and dived into his slowly-forming theory, "I can't help but wonder if there is a connection between him or his past, his abnormal interest in Weasley as well as the Dementor and a former Snatcher appearing near the school –"

"Whoa, there," the other boy held up his hands, silver-blond eyebrows raised to dramatic heights. "You are sounding way too much like a Gryffindor right now, you know that, right?"

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, tell me all about it. Happens when you've spent too much time in the company of one," he muttered sardonically before he could stop himself.

_Shite_.

He watched begrudgingly as Draco's features melted into a cat-that-got-the-cream look.

"So," the boy drawled, grating Blaise's nerves to no end. "You _have_ spent an exceeding amount of time with the Weasley girl then?"

"I didn't say it was her, did I now?" came the testy response.

"No," Draco concurred before regarding him with a leer. "But you didn't have to. It was quite obvious. And since when have _you_ stopped using our beloved Weasel-slurs?"

With a huff, Blaise sent him a withering glare and snapped. "Alright, back to the matter at hand. Do you think there could be a connection somewhere? Or is it all just a 'happy' coincidence?"

Draco, having composed himself, though he kept sending him sly looks, gestured casually with one hand. "Well, it's not like Durmstrang just _breeds_ Dark Wizards – or _Mages_ as they call them here," he added mockingly. "But you know it is infamous for having Dark Arts high on the curriculum. Quite unapologetic about it, by the way." Suppressing a mild shudder, he went on, "Weirdly enough, they're not as affected by the outcome of the war as they are back in good ol' Britain. They pretty much run their own show up here, so you can imagine the level of arrogance..." With a derisive grunt, his tone turned slightly disbelieving, "I have to say, I'd never expect to meet a group of people more hidebound than the British upper-class wizards, but, apparently, there is. Many still staunchly believe in Blood Purity here."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Draco scoffed. "Believe me; I have already had several 'offers'," he air quoted. "They probably think they can milk the Malfoy name to further their 'cause' or whatever, the ruddy fuckers. Let's just say I _politely_ declined. Like I'd accept! I have _had_ my run for my money on that account, thank you very much!"

The Italian regarded him with a deadpan expression. "Excuse me for not feeling sorry about your situation _and_ for pointing out the obvious, Drake, but _you chose_ to move to this gods-forsaken place."

The other boy gave a bored shrug. "Yeah, so? It wasn't like I knew what the crowd over here was _actually_ like. I just wanted to get away from all the mess back home. Start afresh. Apparently, that's not something easily obtained for people like us. But then again, I don't suppose it was meant to be."

Blaise eyed Draco's jaded disposition then exhaled ruefully. "No, I can follow you there, mate."

After a beat, the blond emitted a humourless chortle. "I'm sure my father would have loved it here, though."

A wry smile played on Blaise's lips. "Oh, he'd fit right in."

Realizing they were verging on a more sensitive issue, Blaise steered back to the subject at hand. "_So_. You think Zelenko could be Imperiused?"

Draco clicked his tongue. "Could be. But by who? The Weaslette seems a rather specific target for some random Death Eater who escaped the noose. I can't think of anyone who would have an interest and who isn't already dead or imprisoned. You?"

Blaise shook his head but added, "Though that doesn't mean it's not unlikely. She is pretty much world-famous –" he ignored Draco's dramatic snort "– and loads of the lesser known and non-British Death Eaters still got free..."

"Tell me about it," Malfoy muttered under his breath.

"Well, wouldn't you seize the chance to get hold of the second-most famous Gryffindor Princess if you were a Death Eater on the run, hoping to revive the 'cause'?"

He was partly serious but couldn't help the small dig at his friend's circumstances, earning a glare that could have melted the snow around them from the other boy. They were both eternally grateful for the outcome of the trials last summer regarding their own cases, and though it had been emotionally taxing and stressful to wait for the postponed verdict, they had since learned to regard the entire affair with ironic distance.

"Ha bloody ha, Blaise," Draco sneered, his lanky form hunched, and stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. "You've got some Muggle wire hiding underneath those fancy robes of yours?"

Raising his hands, Blaise held back a snicker. "Sorry, couldn't resist, mate."

They went on trekking through the ankle-deep snow, the bitter winter cold biting their cheeks.

"You know," Draco contemplated then. "I _could_ ask around about that Zelenko bloke, plus if there's been any suspicious activities concerning that little buddy of yours, Dorne. If anyone should know anything, it'll probably be the folks around here."

"Discreetly?"

Draco appeared offended. "_Of course_."

"Hm." Blaise didn't doubt it, but who would have paid mind to a measly little nobody like Dorne sniffing around the grounds the past year or so? It was likely crawling with sycophants like him in a place such as this where all the remaining Pureblood elitists had gathered their brainwashed offspring, Draco not included.

Zelenko, however, was another matter.

"Or," Draco suggested, "I could inquire about the 'hottest' Dark Artefacts this term? I'm sure I'd get a list long enough to make even Scarhead's dainty eyes pop out from behind those awful specs."

Blaise chose not to comment on Draco's detailed barb towards his old rival. "That's all very fine, Drake, but I didn't exactly get a good look at the object, if it even _is_ a Dark Artefact. I have no idea what to look for."

"_No_," Draco droned with a familiar supercilious tone, "but you know whose hands it was in."

"So?"

"So," he continued impatiently, "I may... know someone who has the kind of connections to find out who has been buying Dark Artefacts as of late."

Though Blaise remained doubtful, his interest was nonetheless piqued. "You mean, on the Black Market?" Draco's poker face told him everything there was to tell. "Merlin's balls, Drake. What is it you don't understand about staying out of the limelight for the time being?"

A brief, sly gleam surfaced in the blond's pale-grey eyes. "It's not like they're looking that close into _every_ branch. Besides, I have my studies to consider and having knowledge of underground activities – without _directly_ participating in them – can put me in advantage regarding certain future...endeavours." He left the word hanging there, innocently enough, though Blaise, knowing the boy, was able to put two and two together.

"You're not still thinking of becoming an Unspeakable, are you?" Draco shot him a glance but said nothing, confirming his suspicions. "_Blimey_, Drake." Blaise rubbed a palm along his neck. His friend really wasn't kidding around. But how on earth would he manage something so ambitious considering everything he touched was tainted by the name of _Malfoy_?

"I know what you're thinking," Draco ruminated beside him, answering Blaise's silent question. "But I have a plan, you know. And I'm not about to go down the wrong path and ruin everything like I did the last time." It would have sounded ominous if the sincere infliction in his voice hadn't given him away. Everything pointed to Draco trying to find his footing again, this time in the right direction.

_Hopefully_.

Huh. Never would Blaise have thought himself to be the hopeful type. He always held the belief in having a healthy portion of scepticism towards everything on this forsaken planet.

Perhaps the sentimental influence of hanging around former Gryffindors wasn't so detestable, after all.

For a while only the sound of the snow crushing softly under their feet could be heard as Blaise peered sidelong at his friend. "I don't doubt you, Drake," he then finally sighed, his voice devoid of any sarcasm this time.

Staring ahead again, he took in the snowy scenery of barren nothingness, save a sparse scattering of windblown trees in the horizon. They had reached a more rigorous part of their path and agreed to turn around and head back to the castle walls.

Reaching the main gate, Draco spoke again. "By the way, there's an extensive collection of books on the Dark Arts here. Some of which would never even have been _allowed_ on Hogwarts. If you need to find information on something which could be used to do irrevocable damage, you would probably find it here. _And_, we have no Restricted Section in our Library." Blaise couldn't decipher whether Draco sounded gleeful or apprehensive about the fact.

"I can't very well return to Hogwarts and report back that I have been researching Dark Artefacts at Durmstrang. Won't exactly go over well with the board of 'opinion-makers'."

The blond snorted. "Since when have you become such a mug for moral behaviour?"

Blaise sent him a flat look. "Not _all_ of us just run off when the going gets tough, Draco. I have a reputation to uphold; no matter how much I want to solve this mystery, or what to call it."

Pursing his lips, Draco grumbled under his breath. "Yeh, well, you still have the semblance of a family to come back to."

"But Theo _hasn't_," Blaise spelled out for the second time, irritated with Draco's incessant pity-party. "You get why I can't leave him behind, don't you? I don't care how much of a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff that makes me. _And_ you still have your mother, Drake. Look at what prime example of motherhood _my_ mother is – wherever she is!"

The blond groused but conceded to the point. "So," he spoke somewhat sourly, "do you want me to find out or not?"

Blaise blinked. "About what?"

Rolling his eyes, Draco stopped by the looming main entrance and turned fully towards him. "About Zelenko? _Dorne_?" he hissed under his breath, gesturing one lanky arm into the spiky air before snatching it back to his body, shuddering slightly. "About who's been buying or selling Dark Artefacts of a particular notorious kind as of late?"

"Ah." Blaise stopped as well, having almost forgotten about the issue at hand in the heat of the argument. Arching a pale eyebrow at him, the blond looked him up and down, waiting impatiently for an answer. "If it doesn't get any of us anymore in the soup than it already has..." Blaise posed, eyeing the other wizard who merely heaved a sigh and shot him a look that said _'you really doubt my discretion that much?'_, "...then I guess it wouldn't hurt to find out some more."

"Thank you!" Draco breathed in consternation, white steam momentarily clouding his face in the cold. "Now, how about a nice warm toddy with some of the Firewhiskey I've had stashed away to warm those saintly limbs of yours before they fall off?"

Having not been able to feel his nose or fingers, not to mention his toes, for the past twenty-five minutes, Blaise didn't stop to think twice about the offer. "Yes, _please_. Preferably served by a fresh-faced, young maiden, I hope?" He smirked, his long legs carrying him swiftly inside as Draco did another eye-roll, following behind.

"_You_ haven't changed one bit, old boy."


	28. A different tune

Having spent the weekend at home at the Burrow, being fussed over and pestered with questions by her mum and dad, Ginny was somewhat relieved to be back at Hogwarts. She felt like an ungrateful teen but all she really wanted was to be left alone for a small amount of time when she went home. Mostly, she found she couldn't fully relax in her own body. The responsibilities she had and gratefully threw herself into at Hogwarts were absent back home, and though this presented her with an abundance of leisure time, she only found herself more restless, more easily irritated by the smallest, most confounding of things. She tried to indulge in minor chores, old hobbies and some light reading in order to spend the time, but she quickly realized that the level of efficiency she had adopted from her bustling and scheduled life at school made short work of any such minor tasks, leaving her with empty hands and a new sense of restlessness.

More so, the stillness permeated the Burrow like never before. None of her brothers had come home nor had anyone else been available for even a short visit; George was busy at the store, Bill and Fleur were enjoying a belated honeymoon in the Caribbean, Ron and Hermione were on a weekend trip to Ireland to visit Seamus and Dean, Harry buried himself in workloads at the Ministry (unsurprisingly), Neville was visiting his parents at St Mungo's with his aunt and Luna was still off travelling the world.

Even Parvati had profusely excused herself, probably gotten herself a new bloke to salivate over. Ginny wasn't exactly let down; they would likely have run out of subjects to bond over soon enough.

In comparison, the trivial matters her parents discussed and occupied themselves with just seemed so... _trivial_ given everything they'd been through, and yet, ironically, she longed for the feeling of normalcy such trivialities brought with them.

It seemed she was not about to find a balanced compromise to simply go on about her life any time soon. Not that she blamed anybody else but herself. She still couldn't explain to her parents how or why she felt like she did, hardly even to herself. They each had their own way of dealing with their loss, but putting it into words still felt so inadequate and unjust to the feelings themselves. To her, there were no words in the world that could aptly convey the loss of her brother. At least, it wasn't a skill she possessed.

Her loneliness was ever prevalent and she hated wallowing in it. It wasn't like she was too conceited to ask for some semblance of help, but she was too stubborn for her own good. She was set on dealing with her own problems herself. At least, for the time being. No need to make the people in her life _more_ worried.

Passing through the corridor of the Prefect quarters on her way back to her own room as she ruminated on this, she noticed one of the doors standing ajar, the midday sun streaming out through crack. She stilled at the gentle tones reaching her ear from inside the room, playing in the background.

_Hm_. Definitely not your usual kind of music.

_Wait. _Muggle_ music? _She had overheard her dad play something like it when he had tinkered with some of his many old Muggle radios in the kitchen.

_How odd._

Unable to curb her curiosity of the rather wonderful tunes from inside, she stepped closer to the door and peered in through the crack – and couldn't have been more surprised to discover that the single inhabitant of the room was none other than _Blaise Zabini_.

With his back turned to her, he stood by one of the tables in the middle of the sunlit room, amongst a couple of opened boxes and one of those gigantic, ancient gramophones that Filch used to drag up for the Yule Ball. He was clearly engrossed in whatever he was perusing, his stance relaxed, and she took the chance to absorb the picture he made; the way his white shirt was perfectly tailored to fit his long, straight back, from the broad expanse of his shoulders down to his tapered waist. She flushed, recalling that she knew exactly how those hard muscles felt under her hands.

With the memory fresh in mind, she faltered by the door. Should she enter and simply face the music?

The irony of the question wasn't lost on her as she steeled herself and slowly pushed the door open, trying to appear somewhat cool and collected. The great oak door creaked, making her presence known and she swallowed.

Blaise didn't immediately react, still staring down the box, and merely drawled in an offhand voice. "Listen, an open door doesn't mean an open invitation to just– oh." He had lifted his gaze by now, his brow widening at the sight of her standing by the doorway. "It's you." She didn't exactly detect _disappointment_ in his voice, but neither did she detect much else. Merlin, what was she doing?

She took a hesitant step inside. "I, um, I was just passing through the corridor by chance," she gestured over her shoulder and then peered over at the gramophone playing, "and heard the music and I just, um, got curious," she rambled off. "Sorry for barging in like this." Only now did she chance meeting his gaze full-on. "Want me to go?"

He quirked an eyebrow, the rest of his face remaining passive as he seemed to consider her. The awkwardness grew to the point where she seriously considered just bolting when he finally spoke. "It's fine." He turned his head back to the box before him. "You can stay." Somehow she gathered it was an admission he bestowed rarely and only on certain people.

Any mentioning of what had happened the night at the party was left hanging like a rain-filled cloud above them.

So, they were _not_ going to talk about it, were they? Fine by her.

Tentatively, she stepped closer to one of the tables to look at the content of the boxes he was hovering about.

_Huh. Vinyl records. Who'd have thought?_

Glancing back up to gawk his reaction to her sniffing around his stuff, she caught a glimpse of his eyes darting away from her and continuing his inspection of the box in front of him. She took his noncommittal mood as a moderately welcoming sign to chance another peek into his selection of records, noticing that many of the covers were worn by years of use. _Interesting._

She riffled through the selection at hand; Erik Satie, Händel, Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi. Muggle artist names that vaguely rang a bell. Classical music, if she wasn't much mistaken. She peered up from under her eyelashes, observing him quietly. So odd for a presumably self-professed Muggle-hater to possess something like this and yet, the more she got to know him, the more she realized it wasn't _that_ odd. He had already proven to hold well-informed knowledge of Muggle history, beyond the normal scope taught in Muggle Studies which shouldn't have held much interest for someone like him in the first place.

And, _of course_, he would have a preference for _classical_ Muggle music of all Muggle genres. It was just so… _him_. The haughty, regal, Italian Slytherin. A 'cultural connoisseur' before anything else. Having more than likely already mastered the classical arts of the Wizarding World, as only Pureblooded aristocrats would be taught to do from an early age. Not to mention, looking like he himself had been carved from marble and meant to stand in temples; an aesthetic ideal one could only hope to strive for; destined to be admired. A 'classical geek', indeed. She bit her lip, stifling a snicker at his predictable but rather adorable proclivities that he probably wouldn't _dare_ confess out loud himself. Well, besides to those few he confided in, perhaps.

_Huh_. Guess that included _her_ now, somehow, didn't it? Really, he could have told her to sod off already if he wanted to. But he hadn't. So far.

She had been so distracted by her musings that she belatedly caught the amused look on his face.

"What?"

Surreptitiously he led his eyes slide to her and inclined his head towards the collection she was standing over, a smile hinting on his lips. "Any favourites yourself? Or, let me guess, not your kind of music?"

He had been teasing her, the jest utterly banal and innocent, really, but what was most notable about the comment was the lack of supercilious drawl, and instead a light-hearted mirth hid in his words, leaving her momentarily stunned. It was probably the first time she had heard Blaise say anything reflecting genuine and unassuming warmth, his own amusement notwithstanding. He seemed all of a sudden at ease, the tautness around his eyes as of late making way for the remarkable sight of actual laugh lines. Whatever derogatory things she had ever said about his cold, marbled beauty evaporated. In this early light from the long, slim windows, bathing the room in an encompassing, soft light, he appeared to be ethereal and yet more warm than she'd seen him before. He seemed, for a vibrating and all too breathtaking moment, _happy_.

Could she say that about herself?

Perhaps, for the moment, she could.

Letting out a shaky breath, she retaliated playfully with the little she knew of Muggle music. "What, no Muggle rock?"

Chuckling softly, he looked down while lifting his eyebrows in admission and muttered. "Well, let's just say, I'm not _opposed_ to some psychedelic rock or new wave once in a while. The _good _ones, mind you." He gestured to the unopened box on her left.

Opening it, she found old records of The Rolling Stones, Jefferson Airplane, The Stooges, Led Zeppelin, The Clash and Pink Floyd among others.

"Hm, I remember my brother Charlie being really into this stuff," she mused as she recalled an incident of her brother eagerly explaining the Muggle genres across the barrel of whirring music charging against her from his room at the Burrow.

"Ah. The one with the dragons in Romania, right?"

Surprised by his ready knowledge, not to mention ability to distinguish her brothers from one another when most failed, she replied somewhat stunted. "Yeah. That's the one."

She ducked her head, unable to hide a proud smile tugging at her lips. There was so long between Charlie's visits and she hoped that whatever career she aimed to land in the Quidditch business that it wouldn't interfere too greatly with his annual visits to the Burrow. Even better if she would have the liberty to visit _him_ more often once she was of age and means of her own. Oh, she could hardly _wait_ for that!

Looking up she saw Blaise studying her with an inscrutable expression before it fell back into its usual mask and his attention returned to the box before him.

The easy atmosphere aside, she knew the dragon in the room _had_ to be addressed at some point. Her nerves were starting to get the better of her. For a brief second, she considered diverting the issue into that of Zelenko and Rowe once more. It seemed the safer choice, but she knew he would become suspicious if she did. After all, nothing new had surfaced regarding the two men's respective circumspect behaviour since she and Blaise last discussed it behind the tapestry on the second-floor.

She cleared her throat, diving head-first into the _real_ question that had been on the tip of her tongue since she stepped inside the room. "So... What are we going to do about Paloma and Clarence?"

In her head, she admitted it was a roundabout way to skirt the subject of their heavy make-out session in front of practically the entire school. Still, a girl could only hope he'd catch her drift.

"You are not going to drag me into some matchmaking scheme, are you now? Because I can tell you already, I am not interested in being your partner-in-crime this time," he responded drolly.

She flustered. "No, I'm not talking about _that_. I'm–" She waved a hand vaguely at the air. "I'm talking about the fact that we pretended to be, well, _together_ in order to get rid of those two."

He lifted his head and presented her with a deadpan stare. "You mean," he rephrased with deliberate slowness, "when _you_ came charging at _me_ with that deft little idea of yours?"

_Blast. _"No. I mean, yes, but..."

A subtle shift appeared in his eyes accompanied by the crooked tilt of his lips. "I get where the fascination is coming from, Weasley," he practically purred, "but if you wanted to 'get on my good side', all you had to do is ask."

Clenching her fists, she was close to biting her tongue off from spewing a myriad of colourful terms his way and instead crossed her arms. She ignored his flirtatious taunt and bit back, "_Fine_. Let's just keep up the pretense then, shall we?"

His eyebrows hiked up to new heights.

_Where the hell did that come from?_ She had been partly goading him to protest to the idea but was just as surprised to realize that she was partly serious about it as well.

"So," he inquired after a second or so of steadfast scrutiny, a slow half-smile of disbelief stretching his lips, "you _want _to follow through with this?"

A defiant sensation swelled in her chest. "Sure," she stated with a flippant shrug of her shoulders, though, on the inside, it felt like one of her brothers' Tiny Twisters had just been let loose.

With the current assortment of records in his hands quite forgotten, the Italian turned his full attention towards her and the effects of it had her swallowing her defiance. His obsidian eyes sparked, and she was clueless to whatever was going through his mind presently, managing to hold herself back from biting her lower lip in chagrin.

"Well, then," he drawled, the words a low rumble in back of his throat, as he stepped closer. "I think it's only fair I return the favour."

"W-what?" The arms across her chest loosened, thoroughly distracted by his predatory advance.

He took a nonchalant stance in front of her, absently inspecting another stack of vinyls on the table beside him. "If you do this to help me keep the unwanted attention of Podsworth at bay, then I think I can do the same for you regarding that milksop of a Head Boy. Fair is fair, I think." He left the words suspended in the air then moved his charcoal eyes to meet her bemused ones. "Don't you?"

She found her mouth had gone dry, trying to come up with some witty response to throw him off but realized she had stepped right into that one herself.

It _would_ put some of the pressure and regret regarding Clarence off her, yet deep down she sensed it wasn't really what prompted her to even consider his proposal. In fact, the issue of the Head Boy couldn't be farther from her mind at the moment.

As if he could read her exact thoughts, he smiled conspiratorially and the flash of teeth set off the flickering light in the endless pools of his eyes. Reaching out his hand, his velvety voice travelled in the small space between them. "Shake on it?"

She should have laughed at such a lame gesture – at his sheer audacity! – but, as usual, nothing Blaise Zabini did could ever be considered _lame_. She partly resented him for it. The way he had posed the question; the warming look in his eyes, staring into hers, challenging her to take it, made her insides buzz, spreading to her skin. There seemed to be a new curious understanding forming between them, fusing with the sensation of his earlier light attitude, the easy banter. Distantly, her ears registered the music travelling so sweetly throughout the room and winding itself around them, like a soothing blanket against frazzled nerves.

She blinked and looked down at his large, pristine hand.

What was she even doing? This was _Zabini_. Whatever he had in mind in that scheming brain of his, it couldn't be good.

However, she could surely deflect it. _Whatever_ it might be.

_...Right_?

Inwardly cursing herself, she nonetheless reached out to accept his waiting hand, a tendril of thrills coursing through her skin at the press of his warm palm against hers, strong fingers closing around her slimmer ones. A flash of their last intimate encounter – sensuous lips against her own, a shared gasp threatening to name the unnamed between them – sprang to the forefront of her mind just as callous pads briefly brushed the rapid pulse at the inside of her wrist.

Her breath caught and she retracted her hand.

They held each other's stare for a minute. A question started to form in his eyes but before it came to fruition, she stepped back, away from his heady presence.

"Right. So, see you around then, I.. guess," she croaked, meeting his eyes halfway, not quite absorbing his expression, and quickly retreated to the door.

Exiting it, she practically jogged down the hallway, trying to calm her beating heart. She was not about to wait around for him to catch up with her or call her back before she'd had at least five cold showers, and she wasn't even sure that was enough to do it.

_Hm. _Since when had _this_ been a particular problem for her?

_Since you just agreed to act as Zabini's girlfriend_, a voice in her head growled back and she wanted to smack herself for being so daft. Instinctively, she thought of all the ways he would flaunt the fact that she had 'surrendered' herself to a _Slytherin_ and thoroughly enjoy humiliating her in front of everybody when the morning came. She hated that she could never really know where she had him.

With a sigh, she admitted she was getting tired of this game. The 'old Ginny' would surely have brought various devious methods into play and given him a run for his money. But, oddly, she didn't want to do that anymore.

The question was: What did she want instead?

The unspoken answer churned in her gut, and, once more, she squashed it down with a brute strength that kept surprising her, making her feel even more unsettled. Still, she felt her last resolve waning.

How long could she keep this going?


	29. Fuel to the fire

She had entered the Great Hall the following morning in the hopes that she could go about her business as usual, not having forgotten their little 'arrangement', but still hoping (and inwardly begging) Zabini had the decency to leave her alone most of the time.

Of course, she was proven wrong the minute two strong arms descended on either side of her where she sat by the long-table, engulfing her in a clean masculine scent from behind which she by now, begrudgingly, recognized belonging to only _one_ individual.

"Why, isn't _this_ a pleasant surprise?" The rumble of his satiny baritone stroked down her spine.

_I need a hole to swallow me whole_. Briefly closing her eyes in chagrin, Ginny took a deep breath. Opening them again, she saw Theodore Nott come into view on the opposite side of the table and take a seat while eyeing the two of them with a bemused expression though not entirely shocked by the sight. Perhaps Blaise had already let him in on the whole joke?

Because _that's_ what it was. A joke. A charade.

She blistered inwardly, projecting her spite upwards to the Italian who was still calmly leaning over her, likely smiling slyly down at her head.

She was just about to slam her fork down and preferably into the back of his hand splayed on the table when she heard – or rather _felt_ – a warm chuckle wafting against her hair and then his body was moving seamlessly away, the arms around her disappearing as he took a seat on her right side, playful smirk in place.

_The nerve–!_

Sure, they had both agreed to this little diffusion – one that _she_ had proposed in the first place (why, oh, _why_?) – but did he have to wipe it in her face and be so smug about it?

"Hello-o?" Nott waved at them with a piece of toast from the other side of the table. "Are you two going to eat your breakfast any time soon? I'd like to get out of here as soon as possible. Everyone is staring and I have an inkling it's because of you guys. And I must agree with them; it _is_ rather weird," he reeled off.

Ginny blinked, catching the momentary twitch in Blaise's strong jaw before he turned his head, once more all smooth nonchalance as per usual. "Piss off, Theo," he grumbled with no real bite, and Nott merely huffed, going back to devour his breakfast.

Pressed up against the Italian's hard warmth, Ginny suddenly felt very self-conscious and she tore her eyes away from his profile which she realized she had been studying intently. As if sensing her inner turmoil, the wizard darted a glance down at her and she wriggled a bit, scooting in the opposite direction.

"So," came the muffled voice from across the table as Theo munched on his eggs and toast. "What have you two been up to this weekend?" His face was folded in an innocuous mask but Ginny knew Slytherins well enough to know not to be fooled by this act.

She squinted at him. "Just because we happen to be sitting at the same table at breakfast, I'm not about to make small talk and indulge in the details of my private life, Nott," she spoke tersely.

The boy's eyes widened comically and he swallowed the big lump in his mouth, making her nose wrinkle in disgust. "Why, I never heard!" he protested dramatically. "Here I am; trying to be friendly to my mate's lady – which I thought one was only obliged to do – and all I get is lip!"

Wincing, she leaned forward, hissing under her breath. "_Would you mind_?"

"What?" Nott's eyes stayed round in his face, doing a very good job of playing the innocent victim, Ginny had to admit despite herself.

"Cut it out, Theo," came Blaise's levelled drawl beside her, its reproachful timbre sweeping over her. She had briefly forgotten how close he was sitting to her.

"_What_?" Nott repeated as if offended. "I'm only trying to build a bridge here, Blaise." He gestured rapidly between Ginny and himself across the table, trying to make a point. "Don't toss me under it before it's built!"

Zabini merely exhaled through his nose, leaned back and, to Ginny's surprise, slung an arm around her back; a light yet assertive presence, as he carried on in a bored demeanour. "I'm not in the mood for your antics this early in the morning, Teddy. I'll need at least _three_ cups of coffee before I can do that." Sitting rigid, she felt her nerves tingle in warning as he leaned closer and, with a sultrier note to his voice, he drawled dangerously close to her ear, "And I would very much like for my _girlfriend_ to pour me a cup from that steaming pot over there."

Without turning her face to him, she sensed the direction of his request and shakily reached for the pot on her left, praying it would all just go away if she did what he asked for the moment. She could feel his eyes burning slowly along the side of her face, and reached for his cup, biting back a tiny gasp when it appeared in front of her in his hand, having beaten her to it. Gingerly, she took it from him, steadfastly ignoring the small flares under her skin from where the tips of fingers briefly touched his. With heated cheeks, she poured him the hot coffee, attempting to appear calm and not spill the entire pot onto the table.

"Thank you, _luv_," he said as she returned the cup to him, a breath of sinful promises hit her neck, making it difficult to suppress a shiver.

She _hated_ him for doing that to her.

Absolutely. Hated. Him.

It was almost too cliché. Like one of those soppy Muggle movies Hermione had shown her where the two leads were pushed together through some sort of contraption or mutually beneficial business arrangement and, unintentionally yet predictably, they end up falling in love.

Safe to say, she wasn't a huge fan.

"Knut for them."

"Hm?"

Blaise's arm moved down along her back so that his hand landed on her hip and she bit her lip to stifle another sharp intake of air. "Your thoughts. A Knut for them."

He took a sip from his coffee and there was a glint in his eyes and a flash of a handsome grin; a grin she very much wanted to wipe from his face, once again far too close in proximity.

_Oh, he's _so_ enjoying this._

Narrowing her eyes, she decided to give back just as good. Shooting him one of her old-timey thousand-watt smiles, she bumped her hip a little too harshly into his, making sure to their onlookers that it looked like she was flirting back. "Why, I was only thinking of how I could get back at you, _sweetie_-pie," she cooed, a dark promise underneath the words, and fluttered her eyelids at him.

Unfortunately for her, Blaise seemed more humoured than thrown off by her little performance. In fact, at the moment, he looked like he was trying hard to control his features from reacting though there was a distinct twinkle in his eyes, intent on her face, as his hand on her hip gave a small push back, promptly gluing her side against his again with no extra force required.

Her breath became stifled.

This whole game of subterfuge was starting to go to her head.

"Ugh, that is fucking _disgusting_!" Snapping their heads to the side, a bit caught up in their own little world, they looked over at Nott who was putting down a squishy Berliner with an obvious look of revulsion plastered on his face. That boy truly had no idea how to keep a low profile. "Who the fuck eats this shite?"

Blaise snorted; pulling slightly back though the hand on her hip didn't move. "Are you quite finished?" He cocked an eyebrow at Nott who was now gulping down large quantities of coffee to rid himself of the taste.

Finishing, Theo rounded his eyes on him. "Huh? Oh, right, yeah." He wrinkled his nose at the oozing thing on his plate and moved to stand up, brushing off his hands.

Blaise flicked his gaze down to her in similar question and she was struck by the lack of overbearing disparagement in his face, as if truly offering to wait while she finished her breakfast before he moved as well. He produced a light chuckle, the corners of his almond-shaped eyes crinkling ever so slightly. "My, my, lost for words, are we now? Oh, I can be chivalrous, Weasley. If I want to." As if aiding her addled brain, he winked, and she found herself picking up her jaw from the floor.

"Um, right. I- I'm done." She more or less scrambled from her seat; silently begrudging the way Blaise stood up along with her and moved around elegantly, showing no signs of discomposure. Briefly, she surveyed the Great Hall. Several curious eyes rested on them, but no one seemed to be that interested in her momentary blunder. Rather, they eyed the tall Italian in front of her. Two individuals, however, caught her eye in that exact moment: Professor Zelenko's indecipherable gaze darting away, smiling in that disturbingly carefree manner of his and pretending to converse with the professor next to him at the teachers' table, and next, Rowe, who was unashamedly peering down at them with his singularly steely attention from the sidelines.

"Coming?" Zabini's voice snapped her out of her stupor. He stepped in the direction of the entrance and paused, awaiting her. Nott had already cleared out, apparently.

"Uh."

He quirked an eyebrow, faintly amused. "What, you are not going to join me for the rest of the morning until class?" Simulating something close to a pout, he sounded almost _disappointed_. She wanted to pinch herself. Who was _this_ Blaise Zabini? Was he just as much an act, like the casual use-and-throw-away Casanova she had witnessed at a distance so many times before? He was so at ease with this whole thing that she had a hard time picking up cues of when she should be suspicious of the intentions behind his 'sweet' words.

The corners of his mouth flicked upwards as he reached out a hand for her to take. Dazedly, she became fixated on that rare occurrence of a smile and, with no extra thought, lightly grasped his hand. Immediately there was an outbreak in the tittering whispers around them and she let him lead her out of the Great Hall at a leisured pace and away from the worst brunt of the unwanted attention.

Once out, he calmly let go of her hand, and she just managed to miss the touch before he turned towards her again, hands down his pockets. "So, where to next?"

"Huh?"

She briefly got a flash of teeth, his otherwise listless orbs dancing briefly. "Goodness me, Weasley. Is that going to be your response all day? Sure you aren't feeling ill?" He stepped forward, up close, and she swallowed as she felt the cooling pressure of the back of his hand against her forehead. He tsked. "No, not sick. Perhaps a bit flushed." Stepping back, he scanned her in mock-consideration, a humoured tinge in his gaze. "I guess it's just a momentary glitch then." There was a beat as he surveyed her and she caught a reflective look in his eyes before he gestured to lead her onwards. They proceeded down the corridor to the stairs and she stumbled a bit up the steps to the next floor, heart still in her throat.

_You're only playing, Ginny. You're only playing._

It was a– a _business _arrangement.

She cringed at how shallow it sounded, even to her ears. Deep down, she knew that nothing of what she was feeling right now could be described as shallow. Everything seemed to surface, prickling under her skin, particularly where his fingers had briefly grazed the underside of her arm when she had stumbled, presently coming to rest casually behind her shoulder. It didn't feel possessive, hardly even deliberate this time. There was really nothing untoward about the gesture, nothing that grated her nerves or set her teeth on edge. It felt like it naturally belonged there.

Then why couldn't she calm her body around the genuine possibility that he was simply acting out of some sort of rare bolt-of-lightning politeness?

They arrived at the Prefect quarters; more precisely, the common room which was presently occupied by two other Prefects (luckily no Head Boy in sight). Ignoring their curious glances, Blaise headed towards the fireplace, a favoured part of the room, and settled down in one of the old leather chairs in front of the roaring fire. Picking up the Daily Prophet, he looked over and serenely indicated for her to join him. Gingerly, and not really having any better idea what to do, she went over and took the opposite chair, not taking her eyes off him – as if he, all of a sudden, would do something unanticipated.

However, he only sent her a patient look, a small smile gracing his lips, and then turned to his paper like nothing was amiss and this wasn't the most absurdly domestic setting the two of them could find themselves in together. He said nothing to provoke her, behaving entirely cordial and unassuming (if doing _nothing_ could be regarded as such) while they occupied themselves with their respective reading materials for half an hour or so, perhaps not fully engaged in the words in front of them and more preoccupied with pondering upon the person sitting opposite them.

Once in a while she felt his eyes on her and she frowned down at the section of the Prophet that she had retrieved from a nearby coffee table. She couldn't concentrate, however. The flaring warmth of the fire calmed the ends of her frazzled nerves (when did she learn that she was _not_ a morning person?) but the space between them still remained raw and opened, more so than before – like a question tingling on the edge of her lips; a question she was reluctant to even consider, much less ask.

She wondered how her brothers would react when they found out. Because they _would_. At some point. Not that their opinions could sway her in general, but she still dreaded their varied looks of displeasure. No Weasley had ever befriended a Slytherin, much less _dated_ one – even if it was only an act. She was sure she could look forward to a round of unnecessary censure and lack of understanding when all this was over. Especially from Ron and likely also her mum.

_I wonder if Hermione would be any different? _Well, she knew _parts_ of it already. Perhaps Ginny would gain more understanding and little less rebuke from her. And Harry–

_Oh, Godric._

_Harry._

How _wouldn't_ he react?

They had parted amicably but Ginny couldn't be so sure he wouldn't feel a bitter sense of entitlement over her in view of her 'new romantic choices'. It was not like he had a right, but it was still relatively soon after their break-up for her to find a new dalliance (no matter how fake it was). She felt a trickle of dread; the fact that she didn't really know how Harry would react anymore. It was as if she had already grown apart from him; having not seen or spent time with him in the last year, apart from Christmas, nor having that much insight in the dealings of the Auror department. Who knew how much he had _really_ changed? Because surely previous year's events must have had its effects on him. If she had felt just a splash of it, he would have felt the whole bucket. Not that he should be pitied for it; he had always been burdened with more than any kid should. Plus, Harry was stronger than he looked. Yet, Ginny still couldn't help herself; she cared and worried about him, naturally. The strains of his current job included. She was glad he had Ron and Neville around at work in London; someone with similar experiences who didn't stick around out of pity. Someone who was willing to accept whatever shadows buried deep and perhaps even shared them.

"Ready?"

She was pulled out of her ruminations, blinking over at Zabini who was regarding her in question. When she came up with no apt response, he sighed, scratching the back of his neck, accompanied by a low chuckle as he stood up and she belatedly copied his movements. "Well. It seems it is only my duty as your newly-acquired boyfriend to accompany you to class." She swallowed thickly at his wording and a dark glint appeared in his eyes. "Maybe I'll even get a reward for it, afterwards?" He smirked and the effect was instantaneous; her muddled brain jolted back to reality and she stepped away with a grunt.

"In your dreams, Zabini."

Instantly regretting her phrasing when his response came out as a slow, indulgent hum, she quickly started off towards class, astutely aware of his presence trailing behind.

**X**

She almost expected something bad to happen in the following days; however, they passed by without any major incident. She and Blaise were still objects of curiosity but its daily occurrence proved to be a lesser interference than she had initially expected.

Except, of course, for Parvati.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me about this, Gin!" The latter all but squealed as she came up to her in the Great Hall with a couple of friends. "I mean, you are dating _the number one most eligible bachelor _on the entire school!" Ginny cringed as Parvati gave her arm a friendly swat, eyes sparkling in excitement. "Tell me everything. Or – wait – _don't_ tell me everything just yet. Spill the juicy details when we are alone. Only Firewhiskey can get you talking, woman, and you know it!" She winked and the others giggled, probably at the prospect of more, raunchy gossiping. Ginny wanted to kill herself right there and then.

"I bet it does." The sound of the richly amused voice behind her took her by such surprise that she staggered slightly and the group stopped giggling, eyes practically popping out of their heads. Blaise had chosen that exact moment to saunter up beside her, intercepting the conversation with a light chuckle. "Why, she can be so secretive sometimes and there are only so many ways I can get it out of her." The comment was delivered with suave brazenness which promptly threw the group into a flurry of flushes and titters. Meanwhile he draped an arm around Ginny's shoulders to pull her close. She went more or less willingly, trying to muster a saccharine smile that hopefully masked her stupor at his sudden appearance. Parvati shot her an unmistakable grin – which made Ginny blanch – before continuing to swoon in Blaise's presence alongside her mates. Blaise remained his charming self, deflecting their nosy inquiries and heavy insinuations with studied ease, his arm staying secured around Ginny's shoulders, either in order to make a statement or to ensure she didn't bolt.

He continued to make these little gestures during the following week; sporadically seeking out her company, joining her at breakfast or dinner when she least expected it. Some days he would even come up behind her in the hallway, making her yelp in surprise when his arms lightly found their way around her waist and bent his long torso down to rest his chin on her shoulder with a pout or lift her slightly up before putting her carefully down again with a languid grin in his voice as he teased her playfully for not being vigilant enough; _'some Gryffindor she was'_. Sometimes he would catch her eyes across a crowded room and his lips would curve into that knowing, indulgent smirk, free of the usual mockery as in the past; a newfound secrecy shared between them, causing her heart to beat quicker.

He seemed to expect nothing from her but her cooperation to keep up the act, however nothing untoward beyond not blowing their cover and proclaim the truth in front of the entire school. He easily could have, though; tried to extract unwanted touches, kisses and sweet words from her, but all he ever did was silently ask with a look and the graze of a lazy smile to use this little 'affair' to their advantage – to the point where she unwittingly found herself being mildly entertained by his attempts to make everyone around them more flustered than her and immediately stop whatever prying inquiry or gossip coming out of their mouths. His cunning mind always beat them to the punch by stating something even _more_ outrageous about their _supposed_ relationship and how it all began; each time more creative than the other. It should have made her furious; fanning the fire like that, but it only made her want to hide a snicker behind her hand whenever he did so. He had an unnerving ability to dissuade whatever notion one had in one's head with this 'innocent' sort of behaviour, no matter how audacious it was.

_Merlin's pants_, what had she become?

Somewhere along the way she had forgotten to check if their little arrangement was _actually_ working; if Paloma and Clarence got the gist to keep a disinterested distance. It appeared so, since she had hardly seen the Head Boy beyond their brief Prefect meetings and even during those he seemed to keep any interaction at a minimum, acting rather restive, ready to make himself scarce at any given moment. Nor had there been any jealous outbursts from Podsworth that she knew of; only a couple of slighted glares from across the Great Hall whenever Blaise would join Ginny by a table. Whether or not Clarence and Paloma had gotten some sense knocked into their heads and gotten together in the meantime, Ginny couldn't tell nor did she really care anymore. She was simply glad to be able to keep any unnecessary drama out of her life, for the time being.

And that was the crux of this entire farce, wasn't it? The very reason for its beginning?

She could no longer recall how she had convinced herself to commit to this. And why keep going if it seemed to work as intended with no immediate repercussions of any party involved?

She found herself studying the Italian more often than once, trying to decipher why they kept this up – whatever _this_ was. She knew he was playing with her, secretly enjoying himself, but he wasn't thick either. Even _pretending_ being in a relationship, no matter how tactical they behaved, meant spending more time together than before, definitely more than normal, and often in more intimate settings in order to keep up appearances. That also meant risking the mask to slip. Even Zabini wouldn't be able to behave completely nonchalant _all_ the time. Even _he_ had to let his guard once in a while.

_Right?_

She had been pondering that question over the last week, especially when she was within his vicinity, stealing furtive looks in his direction (although _now_ she had every right to look, she seconded, not sure how to feel about that) – almost as if she _wanted_ to be there to catch him when he let his mask slip for just a second. Her fascination with him and indignation that she felt so warred with one another, frustrating her to no end; wanting to be mad at him but ended up being mad at herself.

She had been so on edge that she was utterly prepared to bite the head off of that damned Slytherin, bane of her existence, when, one day, two dark, strong hands grabbed her from behind out of nowhere as she was putting up flyers about extra-curricular Muggle Studies in the Second floor corridor. She let out an undignified squawk as the person enthusiastically swung her up and around before putting her back down.

"What the–" She opened her mouth, whipping around, but stopped short when she was met by a totally different yet _very_ familiar face. "_Dean_?!"


	30. Something old, something new

The tall boy grinned, eyes crinkling as he held out his arms. "Why so gobsmacked, Princess? Not pleased to see your favourite wizard again? I mean, your _second_ favourite, of course." He winked and flashed her a disarming smirk, reminiscent of the old days.

Closing her mouth, Ginny took a second to banish the initial image of a certain other wizard from her mind and took in the sight of her old friend. He looked good. _Better_ than good; especially since the last time she saw him, just after the Battle of Hogwarts. The fresh air of Ireland's coast and Seamus' company must have done him good.

The fact that he and the Irish wizard had found each other in midst of all the chaos had never once struck her as odd or unforeseen. She had always known their relationship was close, though she didn't think either of them was aware just how deep it ran before Dean was forced to go on the run during the war. Never once did she suspect Dean's attention had been on anyone else but her while she was dating him, nor that he was somehow 'confused', but, at the time, she didn't exactly want to confront him if he hadn't quite come to the realization himself yet. As long as he had wanted to be with her, she hadn't really cared that his tastes could be running in more directions than one.

She was happy for him. A bit saddened initially when he and Seamus had decided _not_ to come back to school but instead chose to open a pub and a studio gallery (an unusual combination) together in Ireland. It was a selfish touch of sadness, really. She couldn't have imagined a better outcome for him.

Looking him over now, she smiled widely. Oh, she had greatly missed him! "What are you doing back here? Weren't you and Seamus deciding to stay in Ireland for good?"

Dean scoffed. "I came here to pay _you_ a long-overdue visit, yeah?" He proceeded to pout dramatically. "And here I expected you'd be glad to see me."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "_Of course_ I am glad to see you, Dean. _Arse_!" She slapped his chest affectionately. "I just –" she paused, joy and relief swarmed her chest, "I just can't believe... you're _here_!" She laughed in time with him and they flew into a hug. She smiled as she leaned into his comforting embrace, now holding a different meaning than before, but, nonetheless, savouring his welcoming feel, scent and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat; the exact thing she didn't know she needed right now.

A slight yet pronounced cough sounded behind them and Ginny opened her eyes to see another dark hand come into her line of sight to tap Dean's shoulder twice. "Sorry to break up the rather _heartfelt_ reunion," came the deep, cool drawl and they stilled in their embrace; Dean loosening his hold on her as she was slipping from his arms and they both turned to face their unexpected intruder.

Blaise was standing before them, back straight and arms crossed in his usual poised fashion as if he found the whole situation entirely distasteful and mundane. Only the hard eyes fastened on Ginny's face betrayed his unmoved front.

_Where had _he_ suddenly come from?_

"Zabini?" Dean spoke in evident confusion, having, of course, no idea of this past year's history between the two of them.

Blaise raised one eyebrow, only just now deigning him with a glacial look. "Thomas."

Dean frowned, looking between Ginny and the former Slytherin in silent question. Ginny bit the inside of her cheek, feeling caught between a rock and a hard place. What could she possibly say to explain this? _Lie_? Both wizards were far too discerning for their own good, currently observing her with anticipating miens. No matter what she said to try and sound convincing, Dean would see through her lie and Blaise would likely just gloat and use his wiles to embarrass her further.

Why did she continue to strike up with the eerily perceptive ones?

Feeling quite overwhelmed under the gazes of the two wizards, she couldn't help wondering at their similarities and evident differences. She had so much history with Dean, and when he looked at her it felt the same way as when she looked into the eyes of Harry; like being swaddled in an old, cuddly blanket from her childhood. Blaise, on the other hand, was all new and raw and confounding, leaving her rattled and nerves prickling across her skin. His shrewd stare seemed to be able to look right through her with an intensity that formed twisting knots in her gut, almost as if he was–

_No_. That couldn't be it. The 'great and mighty' Blaise Zabini... _jealous_? But he had no reason to be. And of what exactly? There was nothing between her and Dean anymore, other than the bond of close friendship. And it wasn't like there were anybody around to witness this or question the nature of her and Blaise's _pretend_ relationship. And _should_ someone see them right now, so what? Ever since they supposedly hooked up, there had been enough rumours going around about the current status of her relationship with Harry (honestly, who still cared?) but she had long since developed a thick skin against such gossip. It didn't matter so much anymore. At least, not to her.

Perhaps it was a different case with Blaise. He always seemed to be more concerned with reputation than her. But given his carefully deflecting, serene behaviour in last two weeks' time, this display was a bit of a turnabout.

"Care to tell me what's going on here?" Dean kept frowning and turned fully towards her. "Gin?"

"Um... I...eh, this– it's not –"

"What Weasley here has so clearly trouble formulating," Blaise interjected with sardonic equanimity, ignoring her glare, "is that she and I have chosen to engage in a _special_ arrangement, one of mutual benefits, and I'm afraid that there's no room for any third or fourth participants. At least, not for the time being." Ginny silently seethed as Blaise shot her a caustic look, secretly pleased. "Although, from the looks of it, she hadn't meant for the news to reach your sainted ears quite so soon."

As it slowly dawned on him, Dean turned to her again, disbelief emanating from him. "You _what_ now?"

Ginny cringed. "Ah, eh, well, it's not quite what you think – nor is it so _crudely_ put," the last words were wrung out between her teeth, directed towards the other wizard who was regarding her with a challenging expression two feet away.

"Then please explain," Dean proceeded in a clipped tone, causing Ginny to wince. "'Cause I certainly don't understand what's going on here."

Her throat constricted, and she licked her lips before pressing them together. How could she even _begin_ to tell him _anything_ of what had happened to her the last couple of months? How could she explain how exactly she had ended up in this odd pact with Blaise when it had all come about as some sort of flippant comeback to his taunts; an unwitting, out-of-the-blue challenge? Her original reasoning didn't really hold up any longer. It sounded pathetic now, and Dean would for sure doubt any attempts of other sad excuses for having kept it going this long. He always expected her to be honest with him.

Realization zinged through her and she snapped her eyes to Zabini who was gazing back at her with a decidedly smug expression, likely seeing every thought plainly written in her face.

_That devious, two-faced – _snake_!_ He had _deliberately_ put her on the spot.

_Why_? Why would he put her in a position like this – and in front of _Dean_? What did he hope to gain? Or, more perplexing: What did he hope to hear?

That she had, somehow, somewhere along the way, started to develop feelings for him? Feelings that ran deeper than a basic instinct to shield a fellow human being from a Dementor attack? Deeper than being thrown together into this mess, practically two strangers; being the only two witnesses present? Deeper than the more or less unspoken agreement to stand by one another in the face of prejudiced slander in the aftermath? Deeper than acknowledging the brief, superficial attraction in a moment's blunder or drunkenness? Deeper than the congenial gratitude for jumping in and barely saving a situation from going awry here and there?

What did he want her to say?

Her eyes flickered over Blaise's carved features and the unreadable expression in them before Dean broke in once more. "Gin? Is it true?"

Biting down on her lower lip, she closed her eyes in consternation and with a painful swallow, she gave a disinclined nod with her head. She didn't admit to anything of what Blaise probably wanted her to admit, but neither did she have the will or courage to outright deny anything and lie to Dean about it.

Dean practically lost his mind at her silent admission. "What _the_–!? Are you being serious? Are you two _dating_?"Again, she nodded gingerly, unable to look him properly in the eyes. "Are you telling me you've forgiven him for all that shite he's put you through? _All_ of us?" he gestured, outraged. "For all those times, he and his mates –" he snarled, pointing over his shoulder at the other wizard, "just _sat_ there and laughed whenever the Carrows would pull you or Neville or any of DA by the hair into interrogation?!"

The accusation shocked Ginny into silence and she sensed Blaise's body go rigid across from her. Somehow, she had not been prepared for Dean to throw in that 'little detail' of their past.

Behind him Blaise growled lowly. "The bloody _fuck_, Thomas?" But she didn't have time to contemplate on how much Zabini had gathered on his own; she was too stunned by the hurt inflicted by Dean.

The latter glared for a second longer before his eyes widened and his breath caught. "Fuck... _shite_, Gin. Gin, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I-I shouldn't have said that." He slid a palm across his face. "This wasn't how I had planned my first visit to go."

"Then how the fuck did you plan it to go?" Blaise grumbled, hard eyes boring into the back of the other wizard's head.

"Blaise..." she tried to caution but Dean held up a hand.

"It's alright, Gin. I deserve it." He sent a tiny glower towards the Italian. "Not that I'm the _only_ one deserving but I already put my foot in it, so..."

Intercepting whatever scathing comment Blaise intended to throw in next, she folded her arms across her chest, tapping her foot, and regarded Dean angrily. "Why _did_ you then? Why did you bring _that_ up?"

Dean lowered his head. "Gin, look, I said I was sorry about the–"

She shook her head. "Just spill it, Thomas."

His head snapped back up, knowing it was a bad sign when she addressed him by his last name. "Wha–? I was merely trying to point out the fact of what we are all dancing around."

"What fact?"

He practically gaped. "The fact that _that bloke_," he once more gestured harshly to Blaise who merely rolled his eyes, "has done nothing to make up for his past deeds!" He narrowed his eyes at her. "Is he even remotely remorseful? Or am I totally in the wrong here?"

She swallowed, looking between the two of them. He wasn't entirely wrong. Nor entirely _right_. "You know nothing of what has happened."

Dean threw up his hands. "Then tell me!" he implored.

Worrying her lip, Ginny had to look away, knowing full well that she hadn't exactly been truthful in her letters to him. She _could_ have told him. But she hadn't. She had pretty much glossed over all of it. She didn't want him to worry, she reckoned. Just like with everyone else left in her life. One day she would tell him, she had told herself.

She gazed back at him, once again struck by the familiarity of his concerned gaze. But did he need to rip up old wounds like that? The line of her mouth grew thin. "You have no right to decide whom I should possibly date, Dean. Not anymore."

With a heavy sigh, Dean ran a hand down his face. "I know. I know. But you cannot expect me to just stand here and see him whisk you off into the sunset without pointing out the obvious. I'm simply trying to understand here, yeah?"

"Then perhaps you shouldn't begin by throwing wild, prejudiced accusations at me – at _both_ of us – if you don't know the whole story!"

"But you haven't told me _any_ of it! I had no idea you were even seeing, much less talking to the bloke!"

Blaise cleared his throat. "Standing right here if you want to address me more directly anytime soon, Thomas."

"Stay out of this, Blaise," she shot back.

He scoffed. "Think that's a bit too late for that now, Princess." She glared daggers at him.

Dean's eyes almost popped out of his head as they shifted rapidly back and forth back between them, trying to grasp what was happening. "He calls you 'Princess', too?!"

Not taking her narrowed eyes from the Italian's challenging stare, she responded drolly. "The first _I_ have heard it."

A wolfish smirk curled Blaise's lips. "You only have to ask and I'll call you anything you'd like, _Princess_," sounding more like a promise than an invite. He was taunting her, though she couldn't rightly say if his meaning was as callous as the exterior he exuded. He still secretly enjoyed getting a rise out of her and seeing her momentary fluster but, in the last couple of days, ever since their agreement began, she had noticed the slight change in his gaze whenever he did so. Something was added to his mercurial shifts, subtle and smooth as they were. And, slowly, she realized that something had shifted within her too. It was all the more disconcerting and she couldn't name _why_ yet.

Dean looked between them with a befuddled expression and scratched his head like he very much wanted to spring more questions on her but seemed to think better of it. "I'm- I'm just having trouble understanding this. To see you with _him_ – well, it's a bit of a shock, you must give me that."

Blaise decided to step around Thomas and up to her, placing a supportive hand on the small of her back. "She doesn't seem to have any trouble with me, Thomas, and as long as that's the case I can't see what's wrong. However much your ego wills it otherwise." Dean blistered at the comment, his eyes momentarily fixed on the position of Blaise's hand. Blaise continued unaffected in that same smooth manner of his. "You are not her brother. You have to trust that she can decide for herself, which is why I probably should stop talking now." He chuckled a bit at himself, the action so jarring given the tension that Ginny whipped her head up to stare at him. No sooner had the casualness in his attitude appeared before it slithered into a dangerous calm, hand tightening lightly at her waist before it slipped away. "I'll say this though: Do yourself a favour, Thomas, and be her friend instead."

Dean blinked, studying the other wizard for a moment. Perhaps seeing _some_ sense in his words, his stance eventually relaxed a smidgen though he still didn't appear quite comfortable with the notion. He looked back at Ginny, his voice resigned but sincere. "Sorry, Gin. Didn't mean to act so overprotective all of a sudden. I _know_ you do not have to explain yourself or that you somehow 'belong' to me anymore. Not to _anyone_, for that matter, you never have; not even your brothers, though I might be in for the fight of my life if they heard me say that, so _don't_ pass it on."

Blaise smiled sinisterly beside her. "I'd be more than happy to do just that, mate."

Dean glared at him. "And what makes you so sure they haven't beaten _you_ to a pulp by then?" Seeing the warning look on Ginny's face, Dean relented somewhat. "I can't say I understand this, whatever this is," he gestured vaguely between them, "or how it _possibly_ came to be that you've hooked up with the most _notorious womanizer_ on the school, perhaps the entire UK–"

"Why, thank you, Thomas," Blaise drawled, mock-leering. "I'm ever so humbled by the praise although I'm not _entirely_ sure I can accept the title regarding the latter as well."

Grumbling under his breath, Dean cast him a dark and, for once, direct look while pointing a finger at him. "Shut up, Zabini. You'd better have repented for past misdeeds or at least be remorseful if you're going to be with her. And I promise you, if you so much as hurt her, there'll be hell to pay."

Blaise stayed unperturbed by the threat. "I am not sure what you on about, Thomas, but I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

Going back to pointedly ignoring him, Dean addressed Ginny. "Look, I've been somewhat of an arse, and if you're... happy," he seemed to have trouble uttering the word given its connection to the person at her side, "then... well, then _I'm_ happy." He gave a tremulous tilt of his lips and a shrug. "I should be the last one to judge, right?"

Ginny's mouth twitched and felt the corner of her eyes beginning to water. Without further hesitation, she stepped forward and enveloped Dean in a hug once more, not caring if Blaise made another protest. Luckily, the Italian didn't say a peep. "Don't say that, Dean. I know, I'm sorry too," she whispered against the front of his shirtfront. "And I didn't expect your reaction to be any different. I didn't expect this outcome at all, in fact." She meant it in a positive way and pulled back with a small smile, feeling relieved and slightly bad for feeding Dean a temporary white lie like this, but, at least, his final reaction gave her hope that her family's was manageable.

Dean returned her smile. "I'm not going to hug you anymore, I think. I don't want to rile your 'Italian Stallion' over there any further," he murmured good-humouredly, making sure it was loud enough for Blaise to overhear, receiving a low snort from the latter.

Ginny huffed a wet laugh and slapped his chest lightly before stepping back. "How long are you staying?"

"Just for this afternoon, unfortunately. I'm off to London to visit the lads next for a little 'boys' night out'. Besides, I promised Seamus to do some shopping while I'm near Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. You know how he loves those Pepper Imps." He winked.

"Oh, how is he? I hope to see him soon, too," she inquired eagerly, the earlier falling-out quite forgotten.

"He's– he's good," Dean smiled, a bashful look appearing in his eyes. "We're both good, actually."

"And how's the studio gallery going? And the pub? How are you settling in Ireland?" Ginny continued to assault him with questions she already knew most of the answers to; given the letters they had sporadically exchange for the past year. Yet, it was so different to actually have him here, being able to speak to him face-to-face. Of course, he answered them in his usual patient demeanour, one at the time; a small, amused smile hanging on his lips as he regarded her. By then, he either tolerated Blaise's presence or had simply forgotten he was there as he became engrossed in his animated chat with Ginny.

Meanwhile, Blaise took the time to covertly observe the redhead's visibly changed persona in front of her ex. He knew they had been mates before dating and it was obviously an amicable break-up given their easy interaction – when all was said and done. He couldn't proclaim to be an ardent fan of the other wizard but he knew a little of Thomas' history during the war and respected him enough to not interfere in their reunion any further. Besides, the wizard's popularity was unquestionable given the commotion surrounding his sudden arrival this afternoon. It had happened just as Blaise had been studying in the Great Hall. Out of the corner of his eyes he had watched the younger students fawn over the war hero and he had snorted, wondering why the other wizard even bothered returning. Of course, overhearing the redhead's name being mentioned, it made sense. An eager debate broke out amongst the students of where they had last seen Ginny until that artless Head Boy had passed by and overheard the question, pointing in the direction from which he came, saying something about the Second floor corridor. Thomas had appeared grateful for the information and squeezed past the flurry of students, leaving Attwater staring after him in slight bemusement before turning his attention to the tittering students, shooing the crowd away from blocking the entrance. Seeing his chance, Blaise slipped out while the students dispersed in all directions. He had continued to the Second floor corridor and stopped to peer around one of the corners, just in time to catch sight of Thomas putting down a very flustered Weasley. She turned around spluttering until she saw who had just taken her for a spin and the level of shock painted in her face almost had Blaise guffawing. He had pulled that exact same move on her once or twice during the past two weeks and he knew exactly who she had been expecting to face.

And then, when they pulled each other into a rather tender hug, he thought it better to make his presence known.

Now he watched with barely concealed annoyance as Thomas once again put an overly familiar hand on her upper arm, squeezing it lightly, grinning. And Ginny's face as it lit up in a smile over a particular heartfelt anecdote shared between the two of them. _Hmph._ _How sickeningly Gryffindor._

Seemingly their little tête-a-tête was coming to an end, perhaps remembering the presence of the former Slytherin nearby. Seeing it as his cue, Blaise resumed his position by Ginny's side; his demeanour hostility-free this time though his voice hadn't lost its mocking edge. "Just make sure to bring your boyfriend along next time and make him do his own damn shopping. Honestly, Thomas, I wouldn't have picked you as the errand boy in the relationship." Ginny shoved an elbow into his side just as Dean opened his mouth with an affronted frown, about to retort. Blaise, having the air momentarily punched out of him, relented with a grunt. "Fine. OK. _Sheez_, woman. Sorry about the jab, Thomas. Thought it might establish some frictionless banter between us, but apparently the lady doesn't find that idea very amusing. Too bad, really. I'm sure we would have had a blast." He flicked him a cocky smirk and Dean eyed him warily.

"Um, right. Sure. That's... fine. I guess." His gaze shifted back to Ginny. "See you soon, Gin, yeah? I promise I'll not up and disappear like last time. Let's see each other whenever you're in London again – or come and visit us in Ireland! Seamus would love to see you too – _and_ you could see our pub and my studio."

"I'd love to, Dean," she nodded with a smile, eyes prickling slightly. Propriety be damned, she went for another hug. "Give my love to Seamus until then."

"Will do." He let go and waved and Ginny watched him go with a tinge of sadness settling in her chest once more. It wasn't like he'd be gone forever.

"_Well_. That could have gone much worse." Blaise's sobering voice cut through her deflated mood. "Ouch, Red. What?" He winced and rubbed the spot where her sharp elbow had landed once again.

"It couldn't have gone much worse than if you had told him we were bloody shagging!" she hissed out between her teeth, practically stomping her feet. Blaise thought she cut a rather cute picture; quite contrary to the epitome of mature composure she had tried to present to Thomas.

He grinned. "Well, we aren't, so that's that." He scratched his chin. "A shame, really."

"What?" she turned around with a snarl.

"Oh, I was merely pondering if there were _more_ benefits from this arrangement that we could make good use of." He was enjoying himself _far_ too much, he knew that. Soon steam might be coming out of her ears.

"_What_?" she repeated, voice bordering on a screech.

He bent down, mouth close to her temple, taking note of the way she shivered lightly from his breath fanning her skin. "There are more ways to let out steam than just throwing tantrums or playing Quidditch, Weasley. You should know." With a salacious smile on his face, slowly pulling away from her, he waited for her reaction, knowing it would be good.

"_Arse_," she merely grumbled, with a swat to his chest, glancing away but not rising to his bait. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she couldn't help herself being smitten by the obvious enjoyment he took from making everyone around them more uncomfortable about their little arrangement than her. She wasn't oblivious to the move he had just pulled; putting her on the spot in front of Dean, but she wasn't sure just _why_ yet and that was one of the many puzzling traits about him; not being able to discern the intent behind his words and contradictory behaviour at times. He was too..._Slytherin_ for that. And though she never knew where she had him, he had also shown her a degree of respect and support when confronted by Dean – whether the act had been to uphold the facade of their 'relationship' or not. He had seemed oddly genuine when he had spoken.

Two knuckles gently tabbed her temple. "Knock, knock, Weasley," came the rumbling voice beside her. "What's going through that busy head of yours?" She glanced up and was met by his amused face.

She made a gruff sound. "We need to talk about what we are going to do. We need to somehow redirect Rowe's attention towards Zelenko."

Blaise blinked and studied her for a second at her sudden change of subject._ So, she's on the road of Deny and Deflect, huh? No matter_. He went with it. "_Brilliant idea_, Weasley. But what exactly are we accusing him for and what evidence do we have to present him with, if I may ask?"

"That's what I'm asking." She rubbed her forehead, gesturing out a hand in exasperation. "We can get the truth out of him with Veritaserum." Blaise shot her a pair of raised eyebrows. "I don't know, okay?"

"Interesting," he drawled sardonically.

She glared at him. "Do you have a better idea then?"

"You hardly presented a fully-formed idea, my dear." Ginny felt like throttling him. He smiled calmly and puckered his lips. "Well, since you're asking, I propose we return to the Prefect quarters and have us a nice cup of tea before we rush ahead with our accusations and confront the adults."

With a frown to her mouth, she regarded him surly before she relented. "_Fine_. Alright." She _could_ do with a cup of tea to replenish her spirit. Not that she wanted to admit to him that he had read her mood right but chancing a look at him, she sullenly surmised he already knew.

They started off in the direction of the Prefect quarters, walking together in silence as they had found themselves doing more times than once lately. It seemed it had become their refuge. Thankfully, this time, there were no one else to be found in the common room when they reach it and Blaise, ever the gentleman-wizard, gestured for her to take her usual spot in front of the fireplace while he called for a house-elf to order some tea and biscuits to be served for them which arrived only a minute later.

"Noticed that Podsworth and that blonde Head Boy of yours have left us in welcoming peace, lately?" Blaise's impervious drawl reached her from behind the paper after a while of companionable silence - as if he was merely relaying the latest Quidditch results. He flipped down a corner, locking eyes with her. "Seems our plan is working out perfectly."

She opened her mouth, but faltered, at odds with what to say. He was right, after all. She had observed as much about their situation herself. "Perfectly," she repeated lamely, regarding him in silence.

He emitted a thoughtful hum, not taking his dark eyes off her, and she found herself immersed in the darkness of his gaze.

Just then, a young student skidded inside the Prefect quarters, snapping their attention away. He had a searching, frantic look on his sallow face until he spotted Blaise and Ginny by the fireplace and ran up to them. "Quickly! You must come!" he panted.

Ginny sat upright at his obvious alarm. "What? What is it?" The boy was leaning forward, hands on his knees as he was trying to catch his breath.

Blaise calmly placed the Prophet down and regarded him with a vaguely annoyed expression. "Whatever is the matter, Wedley? Speak."

The student, presumably a First or Second Year from Blaise's House, gulped. "It's- it's Theo."

_That_ got an immediate reaction from Blaise who leaned forward with a frown. "Theo? What are you talking about?"

"He–," the boy swallowed, "he attacked a student."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A minor follow-up to the whole Dean situation if you think it's a bit weird that Dean didn't choose to stay for longer: I tried to imply his wariness towards Blaise's presence as one part of his excuse besides meeting up with Harry, Ron and Neville in London that same day. He's over Ginny but he is also surprised and weirded out about her dating Blaise of all people though he seems appeased by the end of their conversation. Thus the idea of staying any longer within their vicinity feels a bit awkward (who can really blame him?) until he's gotten used to the idea of them being together.


	31. Secrets unfolding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning**: This chapter mentions sexual relations, substance and physical abuse.

"_What_?!" They both exclaimed and Blaise rose to his full height, making the boy shrink back.

"Wha–," Ginny started again, aghast. "How? _Why_?"

"I- I don't know exactly," Wedley stammered. "He- he said something to Theo and Theo just went berserk."

Glancing over at the Italian, she saw his hard-set features twitch. She looked back at the young student. "What did Theo do exactly?"

"He hexed him, I think, I couldn't really see at first, and then just threw himself at him."

"Is anyone hurt?"

"Um, I don't know. I came here as soon as I saw it."

"Where?"

"By the Fat Lady's Corridor."

"Is anyone else present? Any teachers alerted?" she proceeded. Wedley merely shook his head in the negative. She frowned. "Why didn't you go to a teacher immediately? Why come to us?"

The boy shifted on his feet, his nervous gaze darting back to Blaise. "B-because _he_ told me not to."

Ginny shot a baffled glance at the latter, recalling the last time something similar had happened involving Nott and Blaise's odd reaction.

"_Who_?" They both flinched at the steel in Blaise's voice cutting through the air.

"Wh-what?" Wedley squawked, staring up in dazed fear at him.

"_Who_ said those things to make Theo react that way?"

"Um," the poor Wedley seemed to break out in a cold sweat under the Italian's commanding stare and wrung his hands. "It- it was Fergus Strudwick."

The name vaguely rang a bell in Ginny's head and the line of Blaise's mouth grew thin. "Let's go then."

"Wait– _Blaise_!" She got up and sprinted after him as he went along with the boy in tow, his quick pace surpassing hers. She caught up with them just in time to witness Blaise yank the younger boy closer and whisper vehemently, "What was he doing there?"

Wedley shook his head. "I- I don't know."

Dissatisfied with the boy's answer, Blaise let go of him and stalked ahead, leaving Ginny half out of breath and frustrated. Jogging up to Wedley, she gently caught his attention. "Hey, what's all that about?" The younger boy shot her a conflicted look, opening and closing his mouth. Ginny quickly took pity on him. "Hey, it's okay. If you've promised not to tell anything then you don't have to. Don't worry." Relieved the boy's shoulders slumped and she quietly wondered just how many errand boys Blaise had running around spying for him. Carefully, she decided to go for a different angle. "Can you tell me about this Fergus Strudwick? Do you know him?"

"Yes, he's in your House," he replied with less trepidation as they climbed the stairs to the Seventh Floor.

"Oh? What year?"

"Sixth."

Sixth? Why couldn't she put a face on the guy? She should be able to discern the students in her house by now.

"And has he been pestering Nott before?"

There was a slight faltering in the boy's step that he quickly tried to recover but it was enough for her to get an idea of the history between Strudwick and Nott.

They reached the stairs by the Fat Lady's Corridor and Ginny spotted Zabini's tall figure. Making it to the top, she took in the scenery before her: Two bloody-nosed boys stood miles apart, looking sullen, while being cross-examined by the Italian. When Nott spotted her and Wedley appearing from behind Blaise, he rolled his eyes dramatically and grumbled. "Ugh, just what we needed. You had to drag _her_ into this, hadn't you, Blaise?"

"Shut up, Theo."

Theo crossed his arms and scowled, ignoring the blood running from his nose.

Ginny paid no heed to his surly attitude and stepped forward, addressing Blaise. "Why haven't you notified a teacher yet? Or, at least, taken these two to the Infirmary?" She looked the boys over once more and though their injuries luckily weren't as dire as she had feared they would be, there was still a protocol to follow.

"Not before I'm finished with them," came Blaise's tight response.

She whipped her attention back to him. "You can't be serious, Zabini! This is no time for one of your 'superior' judgement calls."

He flashed her a slighted glare. "They're _fine_."

"Oh, _really_?" Crossing her arms, she met his glare head-on. "Since when have you become an expert Healer?"

After staring each other down for a moment or so, Blaise exhaled harshly through his nose and turned his thunderous expression towards Strudwick. "_Fine_. Go ahead. But this better be the last time I catch you throwing any kind of slur around, or your next visit to Madam Pomfrey will be permanent."

The boy's dull eyes widened somewhat and with a quick, indecipherable glance towards Nott, he scurried along towards the Infirmary.

Theo whistled. "Sheesh, Blaise."

"Oh, come off it, Theo! You are far from the innocent one here," Zabini snarled in reproach, making the other wizard glance away.

Ginny looked between them. _What_ was going on here? "Shouldn't you be going too, Nott?"

"Apparently not." Theo eyed the Italian resentfully.

With her hands in her sides, she turned to Blaise. "What is your deal? He clearly needs a check-up."

Blaise drove a hand across his face with a grunt. "Can you... just give me a second? _Please_."

Baffled, she stared at him for a minute. "OK. Fine."

"_Thank _you."

Theo snorted. "Way to go, lover boy," he remarked mockingly. "That's how you deal with the ladies; begging and grovelling for all your money's worth." Ginny pursed her lips and shot him a filthy look.

"Just – _stop_, Theo," Blaise intercepted then grumbled something under his breath which only Nott caught the meaning of.

"Hey, if we are to compare track records –"

"_No_, we're _not_," Zabini sighed heavily and was rewarded with a rather smug look from Theo, a contrast to his bloodied face and the black-ish eye he was starting to sport. Ginny, in turn, felt she was getting a headache from all their mercurial shifts, though it was easier to spot the fronts Nott was putting up. Clearly, he appeared troubled.

With another resigned exhale, Blaise turned to Ginny, his expression having lost some of its edge. "Is there a secluded place we can talk around here?"

Somehow she hadn't expected him to turn to her for help. "Um, well, there's the Room of Requirement but–"

"That'll do." Blaise waved a hand, gesturing for her to lead the way. She briefly wondered if he was simply too lazy to find it himself because she refused to believe he didn't know _how_. Someone like Zabini would surely have used it for some of his many conquests throughout the years. _Old news, Gin._ Still, the thought didn't sit well with her.

A small voice cleared its throat behind them and they turned to see a fidgety Wedley still standing there with a questioning look on his face.

"Oh, right," Blaise said, having momentarily forgotten about the younger student. "You can go now, Wedley. You've done enough." The boy nodded eagerly and took off the way he had come. Blaise then shot out a long arm and grabbed hold of Theo's hunched shoulder, making the other boy wince demonstratively in protest, and shoved him forward. He arched an awaiting eyebrow at her. "Lead on, Miss Weasley."

Blinking a couple of times, she pursed her lips, annoyed by his commandeering tone, and turned around to continue down the corridor to the left with the two wizards trailing close behind. Reaching the wall opposite the Troll Tapestry, she paced in front of it three times, concentrating hard, and soon a great oak door emerged in the brickwork. She went ahead and opened it then stepped aside to let Theo shuffle ahead with Blaise following right behind. Ginny glanced over her shoulder, making sure no one had seen them and then went inside herself, closing the door behind them.

She was pleased to see the Room had presented itself close to a common room which could suit any kind of purpose: A cosy setting of chairs, sofas and rugs in front of a great, roaring fireplace, inciting warmth into the otherwise tepid atmosphere of the castle walls. Immediately she sought out the fire to warm her cold fingers.

"Right," Blaise's stirring voice sounded, and she peered over her shoulder to see that he had addressed Theo who was idly picking at one of the more odd ornaments the Room had chosen to furnish itself with. "Get on with it, Theo. What was all that about?"

She realized that she really had no place in this conversation. It was private. None of her business. She hardly even knew Nott. Yet, unconsciously she had just assumed to follow Blaise inside and whether he was aware or not, he hadn't told her to stay out of it and bugger off yet. His attention was concentrated on Theo at the moment. Perhaps he was just ignoring her? Thinking nothing of her listening in? She wasn't sure if she should feel affronted by that notion or not. Most of all, she was unnerved by her own instinctive assumption regarding her and Blaise's relationship by now. They had become so attuned; making sure to present this image of shared intimacy and confidentiality that they had, somewhere along the way, unknowingly allowed each other closer and closer into their own private spheres, even when no one was looking.

Perhaps he trusted her by now? Did she trust _him_?

The voices of the boys now in midst of arguing across the room interrupted her thoughts. "I am not saying you should tell me _every_ little detail of your private life, Teddy." Blaise's levelled voice had an exasperated tinge to it. "Actually, I'd rather be free. All I'm asking is that you'll let me know if something is the matter –"

"Who says there is?" Theo groused.

"Well, for one, you just went berserk out there, for some reason," the Italian retaliated. "I've known you long enough to be able to count on one hand how many times that have happened. And why Strudwick? What did he say? I thought you and him–"

"Yeah, well, that's over and done with now, isn't it!" Theo blurted out. Blaise silently gauged him.

Despite everything, Ginny felt her presence _was_ intrusive and she edged closer to where they were standing, in the direction of the door. Clearing her throat, she ventured. "I think I better get going now." Both boys whipped their heads towards her. Theo's face became pained and his eyes flicked away. Blaise stared at her for a moment longer, realization and something else edged in his expression. "You'll have the Room for as long as you require it. You won't need me here."

"Right..."

Shifting on her feet she didn't know where to look. This was becoming awkward.

"It's okay." Blaise shot a pensive glance at his friend who had spoken up. "She can stay." Theo expelled a weary scoff. "After all, given the way you two have been acting lately, she'll likely find out sooner or later." Frowning at the cryptic retort, Ginny briefly looked to Blaise who met her perplexed gaze before looking back at Nott.

"Theo?"

Theo simply stood there, staring bleary-eyed into space and said nothing, just swallowed thickly. Blaise searched his pale face and the longer he stared into his friend's swimming eyes, the more disconcerted he became. He _knew_ that look but there was something else to it...

"_Theo_–" His brow furrowed. "What...Tell me it isn't what I thi-"

"Stop!" Theo scrunched his eyes shut and fisted his hands in his hair. "Just – _don't_," he croaked, turning his head away in shame. "You- you don't understand, Blaise. You _couldn't_ understand w-what I – I had to do – to dull the pain." He swayed on spot. He looked so torn and angry all of a sudden; trembling and twitchy as if he wanted to escape his own body. "I-I had no one. _No one_! Not even you, because you _couldn't_ understand! And I couldn't– I couldn't stop-" His voice came out hoarse, cracked and then he finally crumbled into a nearby chair, his lanky body hunched over in sheer self-loathing and -pity. Blaise and Ginny stood frozen across from him, stunned, trying to grasp what he had just relayed as Theo continued through his tearful collapse. "I _couldn't_, you see? After _father_," he snottily spat the word with rigid disgust, "went to Azkaban and the Ministry confiscated the entire family fortune and our name got dragged through the mud, I had _nothing_. No one to go to. I..." He looked up, eyes red and frantic before his hands carded through his hair, emotion clogging his voice. "I was so... _ashamed_. Of everything! Everything _he_ had done! For _Him_! And... what _I_ had done, as well..." The tearful anger died with his voice and Theo stilled, clutching one of his skinny legs to his chest. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks as he stared into space, a bleak, vacant look replacing the panicked, sickened one just seconds ago.

Blaise looked on worriedly. He had only watched Theo break down once or twice before and they had always been about his father. Each time was worse than the previous one. Each time Theo had ended up drinking himself half to death. And each time Blaise and Draco had tried to get their friend back on his feet while dealing with their own personal shite back home. Back then, Theo had the means and the money to buy and drink as much liquor as it suited him, making it harder for them to somehow control or limit his resources.

But what Theo had failed to tell, or even show, was _how_ financially insufficient and forsaken he had stood since the war. Blaise had assumed or, at least, hoped that the Notts hadn't been too far up their own arses about the outcome of the war _or_ totally dense about dealing with their financial holdings in a realistic way. Though it had hardly been an acknowledged subject of discussion among the high-ranking followers of Voldemort, Blaise had overheard enough covert conversations to know that most Death Eaters had divided their fortunes into several funds and holdings scattered across the globe. Just in case, of course. Despite fearing the repercussions of their 'Lord' finding out how _exactly_ his 'loyal' followers felt about his ideas of a new world order, they feared the repercussion of an alternative outcome of the war just as much, it seemed. Hell, even his own family had long ago taken their money and invested elsewhere, making sure they'd have some sort of security in case they needed it, if either party or even neither won. The Zabinis prided themselves with self-preserved independence and a notoriously, almost unbreakable cool of neutral ambiguity. One that kept friends as well as enemies at bay, never _quite_ knowing where they stood. But the Notts had always been quite a different story, having garnered the reputation of being unapologetically prideful and flaunting their status; staunchly convinced they'd always come out the victor on the other side. It was to be their downfall, it seemed. It had driven Theo to the edge and... Blaise wanted to slap himself like a bloody House Elf for not noticing it before! One thing was the frequent benders which were worrisome enough, but resorting to drugs?! Theo had hid it damn near well!

Taking a deep breath, he deliberated. "So. That day you went to London, the day of the party in the old Slytherin House, and you came back earlier, you had been..."

Theo nodded, catching his meaning. "Yeah," he said in a subdued tone.

"What's this to do with Strudwick? Were you high when you attacked him?" Theo squirmed in his seat. Blaise narrowed his eyes at him and changed tactics. "What did he say? I know he said something particularly grim to piss you off like that."

"N-nothing."

"Oh, come on, Theo," Blaise droned impatiently. "What did he say? You know you can tell it to me."

Theo shot an apprehensive glance towards Weasley. Even though he had permitted her to stay, apparently he wasn't fully prepared to lay out everything in front of her. Blaise felt Ginny step closer.

"It's alright," came her soft, reassuring voice, like a balm to the air. "I won't tell anyone, I promise."

Theo had always been the more trusting one when emotionally vulnerable compared to Blaise. Taking her words as sincere enough, Theo looked away, his lanky body all the more hunched in the chair. "We- we got into a fight after meeting up in the disused seventh floor bathroom," Blaise glanced puzzled at Ginny who just gave a knowing shrug, "and he- he said something about my – well, I had this thing with someone else which ended badly and he said I liked it when –" He stopped himself, taking a raspy breath. "He-he said I liked it when it hurt because of what I'd been through and he just pissed me off so much..." Leaning forward, he hid his face in his hands and said no more.

Feeling a sympathetic pang in his chest, Blaise gave his friend a moment to collect himself then ventured forward as if approaching a scared animal. "So, you _weren't_ on drugs?"

When Theo didn't react or lift his hands, as if he hadn't heard him, Blaise's worry grew. "Did he give you this stuff while you were... _together_? Were you _both_ high?" Finally Theo slid his hands from his face, glancing up and his silence more or less implied as much. Blaise bit down on his lower lip, hating having to ask. "Was is just him or...?" The flinch in Theo's features was answer enough. Closing his eyes in chagrin, Blaise could hardly begin to comprehend the calamity Theo had gotten himself into. Peering over to Weasley, he met her troubled gaze. There was likely a wider net of drug-trafficking on the school. She understood the ramifications of this just as well. "And you have no possible idea who's providing the drugs? If there's more than one?" There was a millisecond of hesitation before Theo shook his head again. Blaise regarded his friend's downcast eyes, wondering if he was being truthful; he could very well be covering up for something or someone, given how well he had been covering up this entire double-life.

Blaise had a million questions roaming his mind, poised on his tongue, but one in particular came to the forefront of his mind. "That day in Hogsmeade... When I thought I spotted you and confronted you afterwards and you denied it –"

Something flashed in Theo's blue-green eyes, angry and dangerous and broken. "I can't– I-I need to get out of here…" He was out of the chair and at the door before any of them could stop him.

"Wait, Theo–" Blaise's voice reached out to no avail; he was already out of the door and gone. Knowing Theo's need for privacy, even in his present state, Blaise decided it was futile to go after him. At least, for the time being. With a relenting sigh, he stared at the now closed doorway, lost in his thoughts. "I could use a stiff drink right about now," he emitted eventually.

Ginny glanced up at him and conceded with a small, tired hum. "Me too."

He looked around the room and spotted a piece of recognizable furniture from across the settee arrangement. He went to it and opened its cupboard. "Bingo."

"Curious," she stated and sidled closer to where Blaise was now rummaging around its bottled contents in search of something particularly strong and numbing. "I thought the Room couldn't produce food or drink."

Emerging with a bottle of vintage Firewhiskey, Blaise whistled triumphantly. "Why look a gift hippogriff in the mouth, Weasley?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally found my perfect Theodore Nott in the shape of Benjamin Wadsworth as [Marcus Lopez Arguello](https://greyjjoys.tumblr.com/post/182312755277/bloodymarcus) in _Deadly Class_ (2018–) ;)


	32. More truths to the lie

He waved the bottle of Ogden's Old in front of her then promptly popped off the lid and took a swig, a myriad of sensations flitting across his face as the liquor swarmed his senses. Taking it from his lips, he wiped the mouth piece and held it out to her. She stared back at it. "You said you could need it." He nudged it forward until she gingerly grabbed the neck of the heavy flask and unthinkingly led it up to her mouth, partly aware of Blaise's dark eyes following the motion. She took a swig of the amber liquid and grimaced at the burning sensation against her tongue and throat but swallowed it nonetheless. It instantly warmed her insides and she took another swig. "Thatta girl," Blaise chuckled without mirth. He took the bottle from her loose grip and sat down, leaning against the cabinet and bringing the bottle to his mouth once more.

It wasn't so much the picture of his long, elegant body sitting there on the floor, in that pristine, pressed shirt of his, that was striking. It was his demeanour. It seemed wholly disconnected from the model of bored composure he usually presented.

She came up and slid down next to him. "Some day, huh?" She winced at her own words. _That's certainly one way of putting things, Gin_. Blaise said nothing, just stared unseeingly into the space in front of him. "I mean," she tried again. "At least, now you know..."

"What? That my friend is an addict; possibly prostitutes himself for drugs and is part of a larger drug ring on school? Couldn't have been a better turn-out of the day, if you ask me," he jeered despondently and put the bottle to his lips. She watched his Adam's apple bob along the elegant arch of his throat, conveying the generous gulps he was taking, and swallowed in turn. Eventually, he took the bottle from his lips and tipped his head forwards with a low groan. After a second, he heaved a deep, painstaking sigh and tipped his head back to rest against the cabinet, eyes looking skywards before closing.

Ginny took in the sight of him and something twisted within her chest. Not knowing what else to do or say she leaned back against the cabinet as well and closed her eyes, listening to nothing but Blaise's quiet breathing, sensing his warmth emanating from beside her.

Belatedly the thought struck her: They were actually having a moment's peace in each other's company. No snark. No goading. Only... silence.

"Did I ever apologize to you?"

His quietly spoken words cut through the empty air and her dulled musings, and she looked befuddled up at him. Blaise Zabini..._ apologizing?_ "Apologize? For what?"

He kept his dark eyes trained on the indeterminable space in front of him as if trying to solve a mystery within the darkness; his voice low, stripped of its usual smooth pride. "You know what."

All she could do was stare back at him. Did he mean the incident with Dean? What happened in the Prefects' Bathroom way back at the beginning of the school year? Or something else entirely?

Lingering on his profile, she noticed the dark circles under his eyes, marking his high cheekbones as slightly harrowed but no less arresting than usual. His broad chest rose and fell oddly laboured. Not even a hard Quidditch match had ever made him look this tired. It was as if every breath he took marked a battle of something he could no longer control. She knew how that felt.

"I think I have as much to apologize for as you have."

With a furrowed brow, his eyes snapped to hers. Perhaps grasping her meaning, he returned to contemplating the rug at the edge of their feet for a bit. "Maybe we both said and did something we regretted."

Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and stretching out her legs on the floor, she concurred. "And something truthful."

He peered over at her down-turned face.

She lifted her head. "If it's any comfort, I forgive you," she attempted lightly.

Blaise shifted and placed his arms on his bent knees, bottle dangling loosely in one hand. By now, she had learned he was able to hold his liquor without a scratch to that polished, innate reticence of his. But now... His guard seemed down. As if he didn't care and was _determined_ to get drunk. Not out of anger or desperation this time, but more from a sense of powerlessness. A muscle along his jaw twitched. "And if it's any comfort – though I doubt it – I no longer believe as I once did," he rumbled and cleared his throat as if the sentence left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

"Really? _All_ of it?" Admittedly, she had trouble believing him. Some things were too ingrained in Wizarding aristocracy to be absolved so 'easily'.

His mouth tightened and he glanced away. "Depending what you mean." He took a large swig and held the bottle out to her again. She took it and brought it to her lips, not bothering wiping the top where his lips had just been.

"And what do _you_ mean?" She asked, sipping from the liquor, sensing his eyes follow the bottleneck to her lips from beneath his eyelashes as she released it. For a second stilling the moment in a slow swallow and an intake of air, he reached over and placed a hand on top of hers around the bottle, and they both stared at the contrast of their connecting hands.

"As I have mentioned before," came his voice, clear and deep. "You managed to knock some sense into me..." Then he seemed to recover; grip sliding up and tightening around the bottle itself to indicate his turn and she relinquished it.

"And that is?" She watched as in slow-motion how he brought the liquor to his lips once again, savouring it against his throat, not taking his eyes from hers.

"Something I might have known for a long time now." He left the words hanging in the air and she swallowed. The nice burn of the whiskey had started fluttering through her system and out into her nerves; a particular heady sensation on top of an emotionally taxing day. Her throat came up parched from the harsh liquor.

She tore her eyes away. "You know," she mused aloud, idly tracing the patterns in the wooden floor between them. "Theo... He might not seem alright right now, but he will be. You are clearly willing to help and listen to him. That's... all he really needs right now. Trust me."

She felt the weight of his eyes but didn't dare to look up. The words seemed to settle somewhere between them, knowing there was more to them and trying to figure out what to do now; what all this meant. With a sigh that turned into a suppressed whimper, she leaned her head back, exhausted, worn out.

"I'm bushed," she murmured, eyes closing and her head unwittingly rolling to the side, coming to rest on his shoulder. She felt his torso rise and fall slowly in step with hers while the buzzing waves of the alcohol rolled through their veins, prickling along their skin. With a slight grunt, she wriggled her head into the space between his shoulder and the hard cabinet door.

"Merlin's balls, we're pissed," he chortled and, what seemed instinctively, accommodated her motions by throwing his left arm around her shoulders in order to get more comfortable.

With a content sigh she settled back into the nook of his arm, blearily reaching out between his bent legs towards the bottle still dangling from his right hand. "And I have every intention of getting even pissier," she stated.

Blaise snorted at her garbled wording and handed her the half-empty bottle. "Right you are."

"Shut up, Zabini," she groused with no real bite and put the bottle to her lips. Some of her hair had gotten into her mouth as she drank and Blaise raised a hand to brush it away.

"We're really a pair, the two of us," he observed.

She swallowed and tiled her head to look at his profile before fastening her gaze on the fireplace ahead and the orange-hued flames licking the logs, crackling lightly. "We are, aren't we?"

He hummed and reclaimed the whiskey, taking a swift draught, and she felt the muscles bunching in the arm her head was lolling against.

She hummed as well. "It's been a long day."

He expelled a low chuckle. "Indeed it has."

With a small twist of a smile, she turned her head to watch him. He mirrored her movement and for a moment they just gazed at each other, leaning against the cabinet in the Room of Requirement, drunk and half out of their minds. She couldn't help laughing to herself and Blaise responded in kind; an easy, warm sound that rolled from his chest, and Ginny tried not to acknowledge that it was suddenly a little harder to breath.

A flash of memory mentioning his grandmother flitted across her mind; recalling the rare moment where his guards were momentarily taken down, something warm and reminiscent filling the blankness, and an unbidden sensation bubbled up inside her. Only... she wasn't sure whether her disconcerted swirl of emotions regarding him could only be contributed to solving a mental enigma anymore. Maybe the alcohol?

Concurrently, Blaise roamed her face, his bottomless eyes perhaps trying to find something there, something she wasn't so sure he'd find. She was no mystery. She wasn't even _old_ _Ginny _anymore. Like there was a blank space within her. Maybe someday she would come to fill and enjoy this part; however, right now, she felt no sense of profound fascination with this shadowed version of herself. It sounded convoluted and childish in her presently addled brain, but she had no other words for it.

"Weasley. _Ginny_," he said her name unwaveringly, quietly, which was odd given how drunk they were, and she deflated a little, looking away. Yes, she knew; her words echoing in her head. _Maybe someday_. His voice reached her, this time closer, softer, deeper, like you could sink into it. Feeling herself being pulled towards him by unknown forces, her eyes fluttered shut in response. He tipped his head, so close that their foreheads could touch, and exhaled calmly, a warm scent of spices and burnt resin from the whisky enveloping her, mixing with her own breath.

They were drunk, oh-so-drunk.

She opened her eyes slightly and leaned back, seeing the flicker settling behind his retina, igniting something in her stomach (though she wouldn't let herself admit that out loud). His eyes looked so dark, it was physically impossible. Leaning closer, his warmth encircled her oversensitive skin through her clothes, and then all it took was a small push...

Pulling an inch away from his mouth, she gasped dazedly. "W-What are we doing?"

"I don't know," he rasped, leaning towards her mouth again.

She giggled as they both seemed overly affected by this sudden wave of sensations – in a silly manner that would once have disgusted Ginny and Blaise alike, because they were not people prone to silly things. None in the least after the war. But now – _now_ everything seemed far away – far, far away, like a dream – and they had for once woken up to a reality they wished to stay in instead. She felt old beyond her years, yet so incredible young and unfinished.

He hummed and pulled back. "We're drunk." A thumb rested delicately on the line of her jawbone as if he was intimately familiar with it and, simultaneously, as if to stave her off.

"Yes."

He cleared his throat.

"Yes. I know. We shouldn't be doing this, I know." She pulled back, his arm slipping from her shoulders. It wasn't like the other times. This was different somehow, but she hadn't the energy to dwell upon it at the moment. She licked her lips and decided to broach the subject, somewhat hesitantly. "How long – how long do you suppose we should be playing this game?"

He looked at her for a moment, the silent question forming between them, between the lines; prompting them to regard each other for a moment longer, searching deep for the answer, or, at least, the reason behind this undeniable pull towards each other that they could no longer ignore (had they ever?), before pulling away again, clearing their throats awkwardly and painfully aware of each other's closeness.

He sat back against the cabinet. "It seems... we've gotten ourselves into a deeper mess than we expected." He threw her an askance glance. "I don't blame you for wanting to get out. Theo is my problem." He averted his gaze, his tired countenance cemented by the hand he dragged across his face.

She retreated, worrying her lower lip. "I... I don't know. I feel like I should be involved now that I know. There's no reason for me _not_ to. I mean," she gestured vaguely into the air, "if this goes beyond Nott and involves the school..." a resolved glint appeared in her gaze and she squared-off her jaw, "then it's my duty as Head Girl to _stay_ involved and solve this." He observed her with a raised brow. Then he shook his head with a quiet huff. "What?"

"I don't know why I should be surprised," he muttered, mouth twitching. "Seems the old Gryffindor lion can still roar." She couldn't help smiling herself, a bit bashful at her overzealous proclamation.

"And you... don't have anything against that?" she posed timidly.

He absently picked at the old bottle label, fixated on the words of the label like they bore some crucial meaning to the question. "No."

Studying him, she found herself none the wiser about his inner mode. Pressing her lips together, unsure how to proceed, she resorted to tease him a bit instead. "Well, I don't think I mind a bit of old-fashioned Slytherin either."

The comment drew a wry chuckle from him. "No?" He eyed her sideways. "Not even for all my slithering?"

"Well," she prolonged the word in mock-consideration. "Personally, I would go for _once _in a while instead of _constantly_." She shrugged coyly. "Since you ask."

"Ah." A smirk threatened to emerge on his lips. "I see."

They sat back once more, slipping into the companionable silence while waiting for the flames of the fireplace to die out. Her mind felt strangely sharpened despite the rest of her was swaddled in the lulling effects of the alcohol and the stillness of the room. She wondered if Zabini felt the same.

"What are we going to do?" she breathed out at length.

A weary sigh escaped him. "I haven't got a clue."

"Are we going to tell McGonagall?"

"Honestly? I'm not sure," he deliberated. "I'd like to deal with Theo first myself, but if this is related to the whole school, we can't keep McGonagall out of it for long." He exhaled deeply. "It'll only bring more suspicion to our table if we do."

She agreed. "I bet if Rowe and the Aurors weren't here, we could calmly approach McGonagall, relay the circumstances and perhaps be able to solve it quietly and without involving anybody unnecessary. But with those guys swarming the place, McGonagall would have to follow protocol and sound the alarm."

He wrung out a cynical groan. "Leave it to the saviours of our world to be the most inconvenient lot within living memory. Did it never strike you as odd that there should be so many Aurors, the _Head Auror_ included, to catch _one_ Dementor?"

"Don't forget the ex-Snatcher."

"Yeah, well –"

"_And_ the cursed Bludger."

He grunted. "But that wasn't until _after_ their arrival."

She blinked, his words falling into place in her mind. "No," it slowly dawned on her. Why hadn't she realized this sooner? "No, it wasn't, was it?"

They turned their heads, eyes meeting.

"You don't think...?" Hardly daring to contemplate such a thing, it would only mean they were in over their heads. To think of the consequences! It would signify corruption to the highest levels of the Ministry! "Weasley, you cannot mean..."

She threw up her hands, unable to stop the thought from formulating, maybe thanks to the whiskey in her bloodstream. "It _would_ make sense, though, wouldn't it? How odd all this was from the beginning. Didn't you sense something was off from the start?"

He scratched his neck, his expression transformed into one of complete disbelief. "Well, I thought our little altercation in the Prefects' Bathroom back then was _off_, too, but it didn't exactly strike me as a liable part of a bigger conspiracy devised by the Ministry for that reason."

She let out a puff, cheeks reddening. "Don't give me that, Zabini! You know what I'm getting at here."

He gazed at her. "Do I?"

"Merlin's pants!" She sat up straight. "I thought you were a Slytherin! Where is your infallibly suspicious nature, Zabini? _You_ were the one who suggested it in the first place!" An irritable flash appeared in his eyes and she was once more struck by how close they sat.

He pursed his lips and leaned his long torso forward. "Look," he started levelly. "Just because their arrival happened to coincide with the appearance of Dorne a couple of months later–"

"Don't forget the Bludger that tried to kill me!"

"_Which_ could just as well have been some devious trick played by some student," he reasoned gruffly.

She bristled. "A _student_? I don't think so. It tried _to. Kill. Me._ Zabini. The very moment the Aurors were called away from the Quidditch pitch because of a false alarm. What part of that don't you understand?"

"I understand perfectly," he drawled as if explaining to a small child, having regained some of his infuriating overbearance. "But it didn't succeed and the case hasn't been solved yet, so we cannot actually _know_ if that was the intention."

She sprung to her feet, incensed by his refusal to see what was right in front of him, and turned back towards him. "You cannot be serious!"

"Oh, but I am, Weasley." He rose as well, leaving the bottle behind, and faced her with a deadly calm, making her swallow. While sitting on the floor, almost at level with him, she had momentarily forgotten how formidable he appeared in upright stature. "Excuse me, if I am not about to jump to your hasty conclusions and rush ahead with some wild theory of a conspiracy that will have _insurmountable_ consequences, not just for us but for the school and the Ministry. Do you get me now?"

She scowled up at him and waved her arms in the air. "Then _why_ did you say that stuff about how odd it was with the hoard of Aurors around the place?"

His jaw ticked relentlessly as he glared at her. The atmosphere had certainly changed from the one just minutes ago. "Well, maybe I just found it _odd_. Did it ever occur to you?"

"No," she retorted curtly, arms folded at her chest. His excuse was frankly pathetic.

With a low growl, Blaise strode past her and she tracked him with her eyes as he stopped in front of the dying fireplace with a brooding mien. "You _do_ suspect it!" She crowed, earning a wince from him.

"I am not dismissing the possibility nor am I conceding to it," he grumbled and turned to briefly pace the floorboard. "There's a difference."

She shook her head. "Doesn't matter. You can't let it go either, can you?"

Stopping for a moment, he faced her. "_Fine_. Let's say it is _one_ possible theory. What do you propose we do about it?" He studied her sceptically.

Biting her lip, she sought out the scenarios in her head of what would likely happen if they _did_ intervene. Admittedly, she hadn't thought this through. "I- I don't know," she gestured, frustrated. "All I know is I just can't stand by and watch it all fall apart either way. And I know you can't watch Theo go down with it as well."

His jaw ticked but he had no immediate retort, probably acquiescing to the point. Finally heaving a sigh, he gestured mockingly with one hand. "Then, by all means, tell me how this should go down: Are we to risk our 'good' reputation in favour of getting to the bottom of this on our own? Or do we drag in the whole menagerie, not knowing just how many of them are already corrupted, and face the repercussions? Because, either way, Princess, I don't think you'll like the outcome," he droned derisively.

She stewed. "I never said I did."

"Fine," he replied, his tone brusque. "Then which one is it?" There was a sharpness to his eyes as if he was testing her.

"I –" Her mind spun and she came up short. Still reeling from the whiskey, she felt in no position to make decisions of this kind of magnitude right now, despite having walked right into it.

He scoffed, unsurprised, voice turned hard as flint. "No, see, you Gryffindors have no real concept of comprehending the real-scale consequences of your actions, have you? All you think about in the moment is 'doing the right thing, screw the consequences'." His contempt was vivid from across the room, enhanced by the alcohol or her obstinacy or both. Still, he reined it in with a terrifying self-control.

She felt herself becoming defensive, coolly regarding him with one eyebrow raised. "Are you quite done?"

He continued his haughty glower. "What? You disagree?"

"Maybe. Maybe I don't." She shrugged airily, refusing to get into a Slytherin vs. Gryffindor debate with him now. "I just need time... to think, I guess," she demurred. If he was surprised by her answer, he didn't show it and quickly glossed over it with a low huff.

"Right."

They stared at each other, tense, indecisive.

"So..."

"I guess there's not much else to be done until then."

"I guess not." She exhaled and leaned against the back of the sofa on her left, facing away from him. Her body felt like lead and the effects of the alcohol had finally caught up with her brain. _What a mess_. The school year was almost over and she just _had_ to get herself involved in something like _this_.

She heard his corresponding sigh behind her and then his steps as he sidled up next to her, leaning against the sofa.

"Guess we missed our classes." She clenched her eyes shut as his words hit her and muttered an expletive to which he responded with a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah. So much for prioritizing the welfare of the students on this school."

She stared into the floor, trying not to get too swept up in the overwhelming hopelessness of the situation. After a moment in silence, she finally roused herself. "We better get back." He gave a noncommittal hum and followed her.

They exited the Room and the door instantly disappeared behind them. Blaise looked over his shoulder at the empty space in the stone wall. "I wonder if we'll get to see that particular setting again," he mused out loud. "I would like to get another chance to finish that bottle of fine whiskey."

She frowned. It certainly sounded like he _hadn't_ used the Room before. "You can, you know," she found herself rejoining. "If you want it bad enough."

His inscrutable gaze fastened on her again. "Is that so?" There was something beneath the question that she didn't quite dare delve into.

"Um, yes, well..." she mumbled, unsure where to look. "I think I've had my fair share of liquor today."

He emitted a rumbling sound from his throat. "Could have fooled me."

"_Will you_– just shut up, Zabini," she hissed between her teeth and he chuckled lightly this time, evidently pleased to get the reaction from her. She'd had enough. "See you tomorrow." She turned on her heel and waved a hand over her shoulder, not bothering to catch his mocking response.

However, her ears caught the low and faintly amused, "See you, Red"; the words having a slow, caressing note to them and she wondered if it was due to the alcohol still running through his system; if he had even intended for her to hear them. It made her want to pause and look back to see his expression. However, she wilfully resisted the odd impulse, instead letting her feet carry her down the corridor, careful not to stagger too much, until she passed the common room and finally reached her quarters; mind reeling with the implications of their possible discovery.

_Some day, indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I look forward to hear your thoughts about the story so far and where it might be heading. Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	33. In the harsh light of day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning**: This chapter mentions physical and mental torture and parental neglect.

Ginny had gone straight to bed, despite it was only early in the afternoon, and slept soundly until an empty stomach and a dry throat woke her up around supper time, bleary-eyed and rasping. She had stumbled to dinner and was ready to go down on her knees and thank the higher powers at the sight of steaming roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and baked carrots added mouth-watering gravy lining the tables in the Great Hall (which was odd given the after-effects of the alcohol should leave her quite nauseated). Quickly helping herself to an over-stuffed plate, she didn't really pay any attention to any prying eyes. Her unexplained absence as Head Girl might have been a subject of discussion though she doubted she could cause much of a stir for being away for less than half a day. She might be the Head Girl, but she wasn't perfect either. She could go on the rare bender every now and then... _right_?

After having gotten the last drop of gravy off her plate, she trekked up the stairs on ungainly legs and back to bed, exhausted and, for once, totally oblivious to the amount of homework laying waiting.

However, her body felt jumbled from the interruption and her alcohol-induced rest was replaced by a newfound restlessness. On the fringes of her consciousness her mind started retracing images behind her eyelids; the shock of seeing Dean again, Nott's crumbled face, Blaise's voice addressing him in a mixture of reproachful concern. The closeness of his dark hand poised against her pale one. Sharp features in blurred, yet achingly familiar shapes intersected and emerged from the depths; jarring memories of Riddle's power over her in her first year, next; Fred being torn abruptly away, Dean fleeing for his life into the woods, Neville writhing under the cursed hand of Alecto Carrow while Amycus, cackling, dragged Ginny, kicking and screaming, into another room, and Snape who stood by, cold and unmoving–

Bolting upright, the nausea had returned tenfold and Ginny veered right to retch over the side of her bed.

Breathing raggedly, she wiped a hand across her mouth, grimacing down at the mess and blearily grappled for her wand on the bedside table, quickly Scourgifying the sick away and cleansed her mouth. She fell back onto the bed with a heavy sigh, trying to calm her breathing and stared up into the ceiling, still trembling in the aftermath.

Her consciousness had not touched upon those dark, buried memories in a long time. It was an odd out-of-body feeling. Like it hadn't been _her_ who had gone through those frequent, drawn-out interrogations with the Carrows last school year. She had compartmentalized and distanced herself from the torture, the mental and the physical; repressed the faces of her friends and DA members who were dragged in and out; torn, defiant and defeated.

_And yet, you are still here. You survived._

_It's over. You're safe now._

_..._

_Am I?_

Eventually, she managed to slow her breathing and fall into a mildly restful slumber until dawn.

With a woozy constitution, she went to class the next morning, skulking in her seat whenever she was reprimanded for her lack of preparation. When she was not, she could feel the disappointment roll off in waves from her superiors, presently in the shape of her stern-faced Transfiguration teacher, Professor Spinks, who, by first glance, could have been McGonagall's younger cousin.

Ignoring the spindly woman's glare, Ginny suppressed a groan, regretting not grabbing a Pepperup Potion after all. Kneading the knot between her eyebrows, she tried to clear her vision but looking down at the textbook, _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_, she still only saw the fuzzy outlines of words and graphics. Even with copious amounts of bitter, black coffee this morning at breakfast, she felt the monstrous headache nagging in the back of her head, ready to spring forth and crack her skull open at any moment. She would be so much more in control if she could only predict her exact reaction to certain substances, but, alas, being a light-weight and suffering unstable sleep patterns apparently made it extra difficult to predict. Of course, chugging down Firewhiskey around noon the day before with only a light breakfast to go on would probably do most in.

Zabini caught up with her around lunch time as he tended to do lately. As expected, he bore no visible signs of a hangover. He flashed her a knowing smirk at her gruff demeanour but said nothing about yesterday or her appearance (_thank Merlin!_) and let her digest her food in peace; the little she could stomach on top of the heavy gorging from the evening before. She didn't bother to ask if he had been there, at dinner, and witnessed the slightly embarrassing display (now that she reviewed it in hindsight).

Ginny poked petulantly at her steaming piece of steak and kidney pie, quickly loosing appetite looking at the dark-brown meat and sauce oozing from its centre. The pressing problem of Theo's revelation wasn't far from her mind but she had found herself more often than once pushing it to the back of her mind; as a result feeling increasingly conscience-stricken. There was no sign of the pale boy during breakfast and lunch, and she could not bring herself to inquire Zabini about him yet.

What _exactly_ was Theo involved in? How _many_ at school could be involved? The whole thing left a bad taste in her mouth.

Unwittingly, she peered towards the teacher's table, her eyes coming to rest on the carefree countenance of Zelenko. He appeared to be ingratiating himself with Slughorn who, for once, looked slightly confused by the level of charm send his way but tried his best to respond conversationally to whatever got the spark going in the young, handsome Professor's eyes. What could interest Zelenko so much that he'd be willing to indulge in a conversation with the Potions Professor?

Her gaze then slid down towards the end of the table where the Head Auror had taken up seat, presently engaged in a discussion with Warwick who stood beside his chair, leaning slightly forward. It looked serious but then again they were _always_ serious and it was close to impossible to read their faces.

Shifting back her attention, she found, to her horror, herself staring directly into Zelenko's enigmatic gaze fixed upon her from across the crowded hall while he continued the light conversation with an oblivious Slughorn.

Quickly averting her eyes, fastening them on the half-eaten pie in front of her, she tried to mask her visible reaction to being caught and simultaneously wracked her brain about the look in his eyes.

"Tea?"

She looked over, belatedly realizing Blaise had spoken to her. "Huh?"

With a twitch to his lips, the Italian calmly repeated. "Care for some tea? Usually helps with hangovers." She blinked, slightly baffled by his considerate offer spoken in that cavalier fashion that usually grated her nerves. Right now her mind had honed in on the thought of a cup of freshly-brewed tea, abandoning her temporary brooding.

"Mm, yes please, that sounds nice, actually," she murmured in relief, absentmindedly pushing some hair out of her eyes and cracking her fingers with a small yawn.

His answering hum sounded vaguely amused as he too abandoned his humble meal (she wondered if he likewise couldn't quite stomach today's menu despite his collected visage) and stood, gallantly waiting for her to get up as well. "Let's find that cosy, little Room again and see if we can't get service there as well. And some privacy, hopefully." He directed an askance glance at their little-too-interested spectators.

Slightly flustered by his casual phrasing, she nonetheless decided to take him up on the suggestion. He seemed to have read her mind before she had known it herself. The Prefect common room was nice enough but compared to the perfect, cosy seclusion of what the Room of Requirement provided them with yesterday, the former stood little chance. She convinced herself that the fact that they would be the only ones occupying it bore no significant meaning. "Sure. Lead the way, Zabini."

He responded with a raised brow and his own private smile.

They left the Great Hall, as per usual ignoring the blatant stares and whispers from the other students, (and she _really_ didn't bother to think about whom of the adults were tracking them as well), and made their way towards the stairs to seventh floor.

Peering up at him, her earlier ruminations returned. "How's... Theo?"

A shadow descended upon Blaise's brow. "Haven't seen him," came his reflective, somewhat clipped response. Ginny swallowed and gave a small nod. Honestly, she'd be a fool to think the two had already made amends. Still, no harm in hoping.

_Now, there's a novelty: Rooting for the Slytherins to become friends again._

"How's the head?" He surprised her by sending her a sly look, the shadow momentarily lifted from his features.

She grunted. "_Not_ funny, Zabini." He merely chuckled. "And how the hell are you _not_ hung-over?" She eyed him speculatively. "You drank _way_ more than I did."

He shrugged as they turned a corner. "Great constitution, I guess." Ginny looked up at him. He was smirking down at her, letting his eyes travel over her face, down her neck. She was about to scoff at his brazen confidence when she noticed something over his shoulder and came to an immediate halt, her expression turning wide-eyed. Blaise noticed the direction of her gaze and stopped as well.

"_GINNY_!"

She flinched and Blaise tensed. "So much for a moment's peace," she heard him mutter dryly.

_Fuck. Two confrontations in two days? As if things couldn't get much worse! _She folded her arms across her chest as she apprehensively watched the newly arrived approaching from the other end of the hallway; first Ron, bearing a thunderous expression, and then Neville, following behind with a sheepish look on his face.

"What are you doing here, Ron?" she posed tersely when her brother stopped in front of her, practically seething and shooting murderous glares in Blaise's direction.

"Dean told us," he bit out.

_Bloody Dean._

"Or, more precisely, he let it slip on our night out," Neville chimed in from behind him, looking discomfited by the public scene they were making. This had clearly been Ron's initiative.

_Bloody drunken Dean and his loose lips._

"I mean, what were you even _thinking_?" Ron was addressing Ginny again, gesturing wildly towards Blaise who appeared unimpressed by the accusatory tone. "I thought you despised Zabini? And what about Harry? Have you even thought about him in all of this, hm?"

Honestly, she had no patience or energy to deal with Ron's antics today. Feeling a vein along her temple throb dangerously, she pursed her lips. "In case you didn't get the memo, Ron: Harry broke up with_ me_. And I don't think I need to explain myself to you what goes on in my private life."

"The _hell_ you do if you're cavorting with his lot!" Ron yapped angrily. Neville stepped closer, ready to intervene, though she didn't particularly like the judgmental look in his gaze directed towards her either. As if she'd somehow become a slutty version of a scapegoat for their apathy towards everything Slytherin. _Ugh_!

"The hell I _don't_, Ron!" She retorted angrily. "You honestly came all the way up here just to tell me off?! I don't meddle in _your_ affairs, so _please_ stay out of _mine_." Merlin, he could be such a self-righteous arse sometimes! For once, she agreed with one of Blaise's old sentiments regarding her brother's temper.

Ron spluttered, his face and ears bright-red with indignation. "I bloody hell _will_!"

"Oh, no, you won't."

"Oh, I will."

"No."

"_Yes_."

"Nope."

Her brother was practically stomping his feet by now. "Yes! And don't make me say it again!"

Neville exhaled from the sideline and drew a hand across his face. "Okay, that's- that's enough, you guys. You're causing a scene." He shot a worried look around him.

"Bit too late for that, Longbottom," Blaise drawled from beside Ginny.

Ron pointed an angry finger at him. "Shot your gob, Zabini! Stay out of this!"

Arching an impervious eyebrow, Blaise peered back at him. "You're the one who dragged me into this riveting conversation by mentioning my name in the first place, Weasley."

If possible, Ron got even redder. "Fuck off, Zabini."

"Oh, come _off_ it, Ron!" Ginny interceded. "Your quarrel is with me, not him."

Ron shot her a perplexed look at her defensiveness then narrowed his eyes. Oh, she knew what came next; the below-the-belt-big brother move: "I'll tell you what, Gin: Harry was _mortified_ when he heard from Dean that you were dating Zabini," he sneered ugly. "He was practically _sick_ when he heard." From beside him, Neville winced and piped up. "Actually, mate, he wasn't exactly sick because of–" but Ron heard nothing and continued unaffected. He was on a roll now. "You hear me, Gin? And you know what? I'll tell Hermione next. Just wait 'till she–"

"She already knows."

Ron appeared gobsmacked, and Ginny felt marginally satisfied by the fact that Hermione didn't tell him _everything_. "Her-Hermione knows?"

She nodded, adopting the cool expression of her pretend-boyfriend towering by her side, silently providing support, if inadvertently. "She _is_ my friend, Ron; one of my _best_ friends, and we tell each other things that we don't always involve others in. Not even family. I'm sure you do the same with your chums." For a brief second, her brother seemed highly offended by the notion that he wasn't let in on every single detail in her and Hermione's lives, then turned more or less chagrined and, finally, slightly ashamed.

Neville came up and put a cautioning hand on Ron's coiled shoulder. "Come on, mate. Let's get going. You can, um, pick up this conversation later, yeh?" He gave a coaxing smile which Ron didn't see since he was staring two angry holes into floor by their feet. Ginny let out a relieved sigh, quietly grateful for Neville's timely intervention. This wasn't the time or the place to carry out this confrontation (though, ideally, she'd rather be entirely free). Somehow, Neville was able to get the grumbling Ron into action and move him away. He sent Ginny a nod of understanding which she returned, though she sensed there was something more in his look. She didn't like to think about the fact that Neville was apprehensive about her choice either.

Ron turned to shoot her a final glare. "I'll see you at home, Gin. This isn't over." He lifted a warning finger at her before pivoting on his heels and following Neville out.

Letting out a deep breath, she rolled her eyes. Ron might be her big brother and he was entitled to worry and feel protective of her – but how _dared_ he show up like that, all of a sudden, and confront her at school with insinuations and unfounded accusations!

As if suddenly remembering Blaise's presence, she turned her head an inch to gauge his reaction. His immovable posture hadn't changed; he was staring after the boys with an unreadable mien before he sensed her eyes on him.

"Well, that was another interesting adventure," he jeered, as if nothing about the incident had affected him at all, and turned to her. "Seems it's all going as expected."

She blinked up at him, then ducked her head, expelling a puff of air. "Yeah... trust me; when you're around blockheads like my brother, this is daily dosage."

"Oh, I believe you." He wasn't smirking, in fact, it seemed rather like a smile, and it was throwing her off more than she figured it should. Maybe she was delusional; sometimes she even thought there was no change at all and silently scolded herself for trying to look for it so often when it clearly wasn't there. And then he went and did something wholly unexpected... smiling at her like this. "Come on." He had already started to move again, drawing her attention. "Unless you've changed your mind about our final destination?"

'_Our'..._

"No," she murmured, "no, I haven't changed my mind," and then huffed despondently. "Actually, I think it's my turn to ask for that stiff drink now." To hell with any present hangover!

Blaise grinned and reached out a large hand to clap her back with false cheer. "_That's_ the spirit."

Choking a bit, she laughed meekly. How had her life come to this? Drinking in the middle of a school day with Zabini, of all people?

Oh, well. Things could be worse. _Hell_, they were already getting worse by the minute. First, Dean, and now, Ron and Neville confronting her at school about her 'romantic dalliances' and acting all puffed up and judgmental; as if she had suddenly turned fourteen again and incapable of making her own decisions. As if they had any right to question or change her mind! She could just envision the rest of her siblings showing up in a row to confront her. _Huh_. Ironically, that'd be the first time in a long time she'd see _any_ of them.

And from what was happening at school – if Theo's daunting 'confession' was anything to go by – the old castle still hid a bundle of skeletons in its closets; old ones as well as new. Might as well start dulling the senses now before diving into it all.

Finding the Room again proved easy enough and, by chance, the interior remained largely the same, except for one or two changes here and there. For some unknown reason, the liquor cabinet had grown larger and the sofa arrangement more convenient for two people. It wasn't like she had consciously asked for it this time. Perhaps the Room could actually sense who frequented it since it could accommodate one's wishes so seamlessly from the smallest bout of magic.

"Ah," Blaise declared at the sight. "Home, sweet home." He steered right towards the cabinet and opened its doors, rummaging around and finally fished out the painfully recognizable bottle from yesterday. "Bingo."

_Right._

Memories of the night before came rushing back to her. Leaning against the low back of the sofa on her left, she swallowed down the slight acidic burn in the back of her throat, suddenly feeling light-headed.

She sensed more than saw Blaise slowly sidling up next to her, moving with the grace of a panther; stealthy, observant, undaunted. Perhaps their little game of subterfuge had finally gotten under her skin and she had become gradually accustomed to his unexpected presence. There was something about the composed rhythm of his breathing that seemed to reassure her. _How_ and _why_ she had no idea.

She pressed her eyes shut and leaned slightly forwards.

"Hey," his broad hand came up to brush against her shoulder. It was strange; those deep timbers in his leisured voice.

"I'm... I'm fine," she breathed out though it wasn't very convincing. Blaise hadn't removed his hand, however, which by now settled between her shoulder blades in effort to still her raspy breathing somewhat. She half-expected the touch would have left her feel miffed but instead she welcomed the warmth of his hand.

"You sure?" He sounded mildly sceptical but not unkind. "You don't look so good, Red." The observation was free of his usual sardonic lilt; the words measured and solid. Breathing raggedly, she nodded and he hummed in thought.

For a while, they simply remained so; his hand drifting across her clothed back between her shoulders. She couldn't wrap her mind around the Blaise Zabini she had witnessed today and yesterday. Smug, considerate, frustrated, concerned, apologetic, haughty and now, comforting. She had never believed him to be the type to provide physical comfort for any unselfish reasons. Surely, he was not one for tactility unless it had a specific self-serving and often sexual purpose; every touch, every glance, every word carefully and tactically administered.

Her senses trained in on the imprint of his palm and she breathed in one final time. "Blaise... I'm fine now. Thanks." The words came out hesitantly, bearing a significance that she had not voiced since the Dementor incident, and his hand stilled, as if belatedly realizing it as well.

Slowly withdrawing it, his voice ran uncharacteristically low, teetering on the diffident. "Right." Distracting them both from the suddenly heavy air, he Transfigured the whiskey he had placed on a side table into a steaming cup of tea and Levitated the cup in front of her. She shot him an astonished look. He merely shrugged. "It'll help."

She grasped it and inhaled the aroma of the tea. _Lavender_. Taking a sip, she closed her eyes in reverence, already feeling its soothing effects settling her stomach. "This is wonderful. Thank you." The words tumbled from her lips and she opened her eyes to see his sly expression back in place. He did a small theatrical bow, making her want to roll her eyes but found she actually _was _grateful for his timely Transfiguration, no matter her impulsive desire to go for the alcohol first. Once again, he seemed to have known her heart before she had herself.

The fireplace crackled in the background, enfolding the dark room with a softly induced silence. Blaise crossed his arms across his chest and seemed appeased by letting her enjoy her beverage without finding another one of his own. Perhaps his need for the talked-about liquor had merely been a smokescreen?

"So..." Blaise droned. "Care to tell me what happened?" Her eyes snapped to him. He arched a knowing eyebrow. "Something has made you all rattled since lunch, recent display of brotherly affection aside."

"Um..." She hadn't thought he had noticed. The contrasting image of Zelenko's piercing gaze across the Great Hall flitted across her retina. "I – I was just..." She emitted a sigh, staring into her teacup. "I was simply thinking about what Theo told us yesterday and I... I mean, it's just weird, is all."

Blaise gave a sound of concession. He knew what she was getting at. Somebody had to be involved. Yet, he still had to hear from Draco and whatever sordid details the blond wizard had managed to dig up. In truth, Blaise was more distrustful towards the presence and behaviour of the Aurors. How could an entire army of Aurors be unable to catch a single rogue Dementor or ex-Snatcher, for that matter? They had been here for _months_ now and literally accomplished _nothing_, other than reinforcing their own stereotype of looking vaguely suspicious of everyone within their vicinity. They had even failed to protect Weasley and the rest of her team against a hexed, presumably murderous Bludger. Their innate incompetence in things that actually _mattered_ was truly astounding!

Still, peering over at Weasley's wan face, he had an inkling there was more weighing on her mind. Blaise shifted to cross his long legs. However much he abhorred the idea of asking, he didn't much care for the sombre expression on her delicate features. "Something else is bothering you, isn't it, Red?"

She squirmed a bit, gripping the porcelain handle of the cup as she stared bleakly into the space in front of her. "I..." Her voice sounded small, so very small. She raised her head and he observed her profile, surprised to glean the vulnerability surfacing in her amber eyes. "It's-it's nothing. Just a nightmare... of sorts. It's really nothing."

Blaise raised one eyebrow curiously. He was far from convinced.

She swallowed. _He _really_ wants to know? _Starting again, she stammered. "It was about last year... what happened during..." She left the words hanging there, murky and prickly, like deadweight in the air. His brow furrowed and he turned to cast a reflective glance into the solemn room.

"With the Carrows?" he spoke sotto voce. An icy tendril ran down her neck. She gave a stilted nod. He returned her gaze, something else fuelling his expression. "What…happened? Exactly?"

Quickly glancing away, Ginny forced herself to form the words. If she couldn't talk to Blaise about it – after what they'd faced together already – then who? All of her absent friends? She worried her lip and cleared her throat, trying to abate the rising queasiness, as she started to recount slowly. "We... we were brought into interrogation, each of us at a time, and..." she briefly closed her eyes, "sometimes it would be the two of them or just one..." Here she faltered, and, taking a deep breath, she started again. "They used every excuse to drag us in; their favourite pastime as you well know," she shuddered, "and Snape only barely managed to keep a leash on them, but, I guess, even he could only do so much without drawing unwanted scrutiny to his motives." The atmosphere in the dimly fire-lit room was laboured, pared. "I– I'm not sure how long it lasted. I never really got a sense of time in there. Sometimes it felt like minutes, sometimes hours. They liked to – _play_ with us, with our minds, and they'd use every method as long as it didn't outright _kill_ us, although they likely didn't care if it did." She exhaled heavily, leaning forward, her shoulders hunched. "I don't know about the others. We- we never really talked about what happened in there, to each of us... I only know that Amycus _tried_– he tried to..." feeling herself blanch at the mere thought of what that wretched man had said and done to her, her grip on the sofa turned white-knuckled and she forcibly steeled her voice, "but he never _succeeded_." Dropping her shoulders, it felt like a weight had been simultaneously lifted from her chest and caved it in. How could something as simple as relaying those events take the breath from her like that?

After what seemed an eternity, Blaise's voice broke through the gloomy stillness. "Is... Is there anything I can do?" His tone was stripped from its usual vain guile; wary disquietude hinting on its edges.

She turned her head and stared at him. Somehow, his perceptive, taut expression was more than she could bear. Feeling her eyes beginning to water, she tore them away and blinked frustratingly. "I don't expect you to be here to coddle my mind, all of sudden, Zabini," she spoke harshly, angrily wiping the tears from her face. _He could take it_. "I don't need you to tell me it's all going to get better. Because that's just _shite_."

"I had no intention to do so," came his subdued response. She didn't know what to do with that. Couldn't he throw some scathing remark back in her face so that she could channel all this anger she didn't know what to do with? Couldn't he act like he didn't care like he used to?!

"You know, my mother..." he surprised her by speaking next, pausing as if to brace himself as he glanced away with a blank look, "she never really bothered with the fact that I knew – I _knew _about her dealings with her ex-husbands. She didn't care if I was right there, seeing her poisoning their minds, their food, their souls, going from one gullible victim to the next. And I just stood silently by and did... nothing." The breath expanded in his wide chest, his voice hard and posture turned stiff.

For a second Ginny merely gaped at him, thoroughly thrown by his confession. He swallowed thickly and she watched the Adam's apple bobbing along his elegant throat. Never had she heard Zabini talk about his mother, let alone pour his heart out like that. She didn't know if she should feel shocked or proud by being the one he had chosen to confess this to. Most of all, she just felt sad for him. Utterly, devastatingly sad. He had just been a small boy when he had watched his mother begin to leave a literal trail of discarded bodies behind her. And all the vile gossip following in its wake... She could hardly imagine the horror of growing up with a single parent like that. It left her feeling hollowed out; his distress loaded upon her own, yet he had somehow, intentionally or not, managed to distract her enough from her own pain.

Blaise didn't know why he just said that. Perhaps something about her baring her soul like that had him thinking about his own load that he had been carrying around... 

_Merlin's balls_, he was becoming a right pathetic wimp by being near the former Gryffindor. _Why the fuck did I just confess all that to her?!_

He felt her hand come up and timidly touch his shoulder and the contact was like an electric current through his upper body. He turned his head and met her gaze. The corner of her sad mouth quirked up in a tentative smile.

"It's... okay, Blaise."

He shook his head in disbelief. How could she even think _any_ of this was okay? He felt his shoulders roll with sudden withheld frustration; against everyone, his mother, the school, the press, the entire fucking universe. "No, it isn't."

Her dainty grip on his shoulder tightened for a split second as if she knew exactly what was on his mind. "I know. None of this is. But I know you couldn't do anything."

He scowled. How could she be so forgiving about this? "Bloody hell I could, Weasley!" She looked at him wide-eyed yet somehow didn't remove her hand from his shoulder. "Have you forgotten what we did? We _laughed_. We just stood there, laughing at you, when they dragged you in by the hair. We did _nothing_ even though we _knew_." He pierced her with a wild, incensed look as if to spark some sort of equally repulsed reaction from her. She endured his gaze unflinchingly and he secretly couldn't help but marvel at her resolute, inner strength; her ability to muster such conviction when she needed to. _Foolish girl_. Couldn't she see that he wasn't the type to be forgiven?

"And yet I cannot make myself condemn your actions," she reiterated, removing her hand, leaving an empty print on his shoulder. "I don't see the use of it anymore." Lifting her head towards the ceiling, she sighed. "I could spend the rest of the year – the rest of my _life_, I guess – blaming everyone who didn't step in, every one of the DA members who eventually gave in, but I simply cannot do that anymore. I'm just too... tired." She tipped her chin down. Sniffing, she wiped her nose, withholding the tears threatening to return. He found he couldn't look away when she turned her gaze back to him. "No matter how much you dislike it, I forgive you for it, Blaise. I want to."

He opened his mouth to protest but found he couldn't get a sound out. He realized, begrudgingly, that her sincerity had rendered him speechless. Or perhaps it was due to the lightness in his chest in the aftermath of his own confession. _Bugger_. Snapping his mouth shut, he grumbled in mild annoyance, unwittingly extracting a small smile from her.

_Fine. Let her have her forgiveness if it's so damn important to her._

He felt her eyes on him and despite his vehement refusal, an unfamiliar warmth started to spread within his chest, igniting a tiny shiver across his skin. Since when did she have the ability to reduce him to this? Where had his confidence suddenly gone?

However, she didn't take advantage of his faltering inaction nor did she tease him about it. He certainly would have in a similar situation.

...Wouldn't he?

Ginny silently took in the former Slytherin as the unguarded moment left him exposed; warring emotions flitting across his regal features, unable to settle in one place. She recalled the aftermath of the Dementor incident, at the inn, when she sat across from him, observing his belated reaction to the attack.

It seemed so long ago now.

She acknowledged that nothing between them was as easily explained as mere belligerent tension anymore. What she had realized already during Christmas couldn't be as simply explained as that. Whatever feelings she had formed towards him, they were not _simple_.

However, she wondered why it _couldn't_ be simple between them? Or if it already was; they were just too stubborn and hot-headed around each other to see it or admit it?

Blaise Zabini was indeed the first person she could think of who would grab for the simple solution.

_So would you_, an inner voice remarked and she stilled within her musings, unwittingly admitting to it.

_Yes. _She would have._ Once._

Everything had changed with the war, she argued with herself, coming to a harsh conclusion: Nothing was simple anymore.

_But maybe things could become simple with __him__?_ The voice innocently countered and she gritted her teeth in annoyance.

_Oh, shut it!_

But, perhaps they _had_ started chipping off each other's coat of armour, almost naturally; simply by working together?

They might just, deep down, have accepted it. Of finally having found someone strangely complementing to their own stubborn independence. An odd, wary relief that beckoned to be explored underneath all the empty slurs and hollow animosity they kept charging each other with, in order to keep up _some_ kind of shield. Whatever was left of it. Most of the time, she felt like she was more of a shell of herself than really anything else.

But they had been in a _war_, hadn't they? They had_ survived_, for crying out loud! Not many could prize themselves so lucky. And the pair of them now made one of the most (in)famous people in the Wizarding World and yet, Ginny had never felt more alone and isolated. 'Outed' in the media, however celebratory most of it was, unlike Zabini's situation. And, most of all, feeling helpless against it all. Or the feeling itself. She couldn't pinpoint it exactly. She could give no concrete evidence to why she shouldn't feel better. She moved forward, did her best and still she felt stagnated, alienated in her sense of _life_. Sluggishly aware of things that passed through her life and then moved on. As if standing like an outside observer looking in. She was becoming painfully aware of the things that didn't happen in her life and the things that could, but could only respond with a dull sense of acquiescence.

Why did it even matter?

Sometimes, when she looked at Blaise, she saw streaks of that same desolation reflecting behind all that leer and swagger; when he would momentarily look away, caught in a rare, unaware moment.

They were resigned to their respective fates, perhaps. Not ungrateful but not exactly appeased. Just existing. Why it should be so different from anybody else who had suffered through the same as them, she couldn't answer. And she couldn't answer why – of all people's magic – her own magic chose to become entangled with that of a boy she hardly knew.

But... whatever they had gotten themselves into; they were in it together now.

"Weasley?"

She looked up to see the subject of her thoughts peering down at her with a small frown on his face; a searching flicker in his direct gaze. Here, in the dimly fire-lit room, all by themselves, she noticed his eyes weren't simply black nor dark-brown, but instead a vivid array of embers against the blackish brown, like a Tiger's eye gemstone, that drew her in and made her forget where she was, forget to breathe. She had watched, up-close, how he turned to look down his nose at people; superior and impartial. Always with that practised concealment in place, letting people clash against solid ebony for all eternity if he chose to do so. He could still aim those perceptively scathing and glib notes with perfect precision towards others; exerting that graceful roll of his eyes that only the Wizarding upper-class could master. But she hadn't been able to overlook the almost indecipherable segueing from how his eyes tended to fix on her; the callousness of his manner replaced by a teasing edge that seemed only reserved for her. Sometimes a sobering curiosity, as if he found himself enjoying their banter a little too much, leaving him mystified and conflicted, unaccustomed to the sensation.

The spell broke when he leaned back with a sigh. "You know what? I think we deserve a break."

She blinked, nonplussed by the sudden shift. "A– a break?"

"Yeah, you know; some time away from all this."

"What... what do you mean?" She honestly had no idea what he was on about.

A glint flashed in his pupils, his velvety voice going a couple of octaves lower. "What do you say to a trip to Italy during Easter break?"

She gaped at him. "Uh...wh– Italy?"

"Sure. My grandmother runs the family estate. She will probably want to be there to greet us once we arrive." Faintly amused by her obvious confusion, he cajoled with practised ease. "Don't you want to go somewhere warmer and sunnier than cold, old Scotland?"

Well, she couldn't argue with him on the latter but she was so entirely taken aback by his offer in the first place; she couldn't wrap her head around what he was _actually_ saying. "But... _why_? Why me? Why not just go by yourself?"

Huffing, he held himself back from visibly rolling his eyes. "Why do you insist on making everything so difficult, Weasley? Most people would _jump_ at the chance of going to Italy."

Worrying her lower lip, she deliberated the offer. Admittedly, it sounded awfully tempting to get away for a while but she hesitated regarding his exact motive. Then another pressing question blurted out of her: "What about Theo?"

His jaw hardened. "What about him?"

"Wouldn't you like to stay to sort out things with him?"

He harrumphed. "I don't see why it can't wait. Theo is a big boy. He doesn't need me to be his bloody nursemaid everywhere he goes."

"But wouldn't it be better to–"

Blaise groaned. "Will you or will you not come with me to Italy, Weasley?" he interrupted impatiently. "Make up your mind."

"Well, I...," she waffled, reluctant to give him an answer. "I mean... Wouldn't that sort of make it, _this_, official?" She posed hesitantly. "Meeting your grandmother?"

He raised an unruffled eyebrow. "I don't see why that is of any importance?"

"I...I'm not sure I'm comfortable leading her on like that, Zabini."

Shrugging, he reflected listlessly. "She is not one to make much of a fuss about such things."

Absorbing his meaning, she shot him a dry glance. "What, because it's such a frequent occurrence for her to be presented with one of your latest conquests?"

Blaise chortled, "Your jealousy is cute, Red," ignoring her disgruntled sniff. "No, more like not bothering to ask into unimportant details. That's kinda what I like about her." His eyes gained an almost wistful gleam. "I think you'll like her too." Ginny silently gawked at his statuesque profile.

Did he _really_ want her to meet his grandmother? He still hadn't told her _why_. What was the point of leading more people on; people _close_ to them? It was just more lies piled upon each other that they'd have to deal with sooner or later; something Ginny wasn't looking forward to, at all. And she didn't particularly like the idea if being one in a hundred different girls he brought along to Italy on the promise of getting a much needed vacation.

"So?" She found his dark, discerning gaze fixed upon her again, at odds with his casual tone of voice. "What'll it be?"

Her brow furrowed. "I'm still not sure I can decide here and now, Blaise. There are loads of things I need to consider before I go with you to a foreign country... My parents' consent, for one thing." Seeing his expression tighten in mild exasperation, she quickly beat him to it. "I'm not just one of your usual birds, Zabini," she bit out. "I don't just drop everything the minute you tell me to." She sent him a final glare.

A muscle in Blaise's jaw ticked before he relented. "Fine." Uncrossing his arms, he stood up straight and she had to swallow for a second, seeing him looming over her with an almost unforgiving stare. "But just so you know," he added with glacial inflection as he moved towards the door, "I have _never_ brought anyone to meet my grandmother before." He exited it and left Ginny staring bereft after him, two red spots forming along her cheekbones.


	34. Little white lies

The days were rapidly approaching Easter break and Blaise’s promise of taking her to meet his grandmother in Italy was ever pressing on Ginny’s mind.

Well... Along with everything else.

She had only caught glimpses of Theo here and there, and never within distance of Blaise. It seemed the troubled boy strove to make himself as scarce as possible. She only hoped he wasn’t getting himself into _more_ trouble in the meantime until he and Blaise had sorted things out. Speaking of which...

Blaise, in his own self-possessed fashion, did nothing to allude to any sudden rift between Ginny and himself. Actually, it was all the more troubling. She almost wished he’d react in _some_ way instead of putting on his effortlessly debonair persona each time they interacted, in public or otherwise. Every attempt she made to try and pick up from when they last spoke or confront him bounced right off his stoic veneer; as if _nothing_ had changed, and he was as indifferent to her existence as before. To her own amazement, she felt a tiny bit slighted by this treatment. She wasn’t sure why it suddenly meant so much to her. All she knew was that she didn’t want smooth, aloof Blaise. She wanted...

What she _wanted_ was to talk to him about the trip.

And then she found that she couldn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to ask him again why he had invited her nor voice her reservations about it. The lack of closure only added to her building nerves.

In truth, she _wanted_ to go. She wanted to feel the golden sun on her skin and inhale the sweltering Mediterranean air so often raved about by others who had been to Italy. In fact, she also felt a small frisson of anticipation at the prospect of Blaise showing her his native country but she wouldn’t admit that to anyone.

Of course, first and foremost, she had some unfinished business to deal with at home. Whether or not Ron had already done her the ‘courtesy’ of dropping the bombshell, she had to deal with her parents on her own. She couldn’t very well go on like this. She hadn’t even told them about the Dementor attack or the Quidditch incident. It felt like she’d tried to shield them this entire year by only letting them in on innocuous and boring details in order to install as much normalcy into their daily lives as possible. To rest their minds assured. Even if it was through a white lie. It didn’t sit well with her and it wasn’t fair to her parents. Objectively and ideally, she wanted nothing more than to turn the lie into a truth, so that she didn’t have to keep pretending anymore. Sure, she had thrown her parents white lies in the past; choosing not to share certain parts of her life like all teenagers did. But, now, it felt all the more poignant, all the more afflictive, throwing them a white lie after everything that had happened...after what they’d gone through; everything they’d lost... Her parents trusted her to get better; they gave her time and support; they expected her to tell the truth of how she was faring.

No, she had to somehow give them the most accurate version of what was going on in her life, if not the entirety of it. The reason for her holding slightly back _still_ lay in the fact that she and Zabini hadn’t exactly been completely truthful and trustful towards each other yet. What exactly _were_ they? That ‘small’ detail seemed too precarious to voice, even to her parents.

Perhaps she should though? What could happen? They’d understand, surely?

She kept gnawing on her lower lip as she pondered upon the problem. Which, to be fair, wasn’t such a big problem as she made it out to be. It was only her parents, after all. Wouldn’t they be glad that she was finally started to confide in them again and seek out their advice?

Or would they be disappointed that she’d even gotten herself into this mess in the first place? Maybe it wouldn’t help that she told them about what was possibly happening at school on top of that?

No, she had to find out more about the stuff with Theo first before she – _and_ Blaise – told anyone else. So that they could be _completely_ sure, like Zabini had been in favour of to begin with (loathe as she was to admit it, he was right).

And, in regards to the trip, she could likely segueing into the subject smoothly enough if it was over some dinner and wine. She always found her mum and dad to be more easygoing with their bellies full and no other present worries troubling them.

So, by her next weekend visit to the Burrow, she bought a nice Muggle wine for her dad (which he was always excited about) and some of her mum’s favourite chocolate.

Thrilled (more by the sight of Ginny than the chocolate), her mum hugged the breath from her. “Just us and your father tonight, dear,” she said, leading Ginny into the kitchen. “George couldn’t make it.” She put on a great show to sound untouched by the fact and Ginny smiled sadly, knowing George put up as many excuses as she did when it came to the frequent invitations to the Burrow. None of them could bear the melancholy that hung around the place despite their parents’ efforts to put on cheery faces.

Entering the living room, Ginny found her dad stooped over his cluttered desk, tinkering with something as usual. He turned his head as she approached and his absentminded expression lit up.

Greeting her with a hug, he asked. “How are you, sweetheart? Everything good at school?”

The corner of her mouth flicked up, but she deftly avoided the truth of the question for the time being. “Well enough, dad. And you?”

“Oh, you know me,” he answered good-humouredly, “always tinkering with the newest hobby of mine. Did you know: Muggles use so-called microwave-ovens with radiation to heat up food? And that ants are small enough to dodge the rays if put inside?”

She bit back a smile, indulging him. “Really? That’s sounds interesting, dad.”

“Doesn’t it?” He nodded eagerly. “I never would have imagined.”

She chuckled. “Neither would I.” She handed over the wine. “Here. For you.”

“Amazing! Capital! Thank you,” he gushed, just as the doorbell rang. They looked at each other, puzzled.

“Maybe it’s George coming anyway?” she ventured.

“Maybe. But he usually doesn’t use the doorbell, does he?” He put down the bottle on the table and walked out to the entrance hall.

No sooner had he left than her mum entered the living room with a nonplussed expression. “You didn’t tell us you invited Blaise Zabini, dear.”

“_What_?” Ginny’s heart flew up into her throat. “Why- why would you say that?”

“Because he’s standing on the doorstep claiming you invited him to dinner. You should have told us, sweetheart. I would have made sure to make extra dessert.”

Ginny was already halfway out the living room. What in the world was he doing here? “What did he say to you exactly?” she muttered over her shoulder to her mum who had followed behind.

“He said something about his plans being cancelled last minute...”

They rounded the corner to entrance hall and came face-to-face with said surprise guest as he finished whatever conversation he had been carrying on with her dad. He lifted his gaze and winked as her dad turned to her with an animated gesture. “Well, this _is_ a surprise! Ginny, Blaise just let me in on the fact that the Italian fascists tried to collaborate with Grindelwald in the 1920s. Did you know?” he enquired.

She clenched her jaw, the question mostly going over her head as her eyes never left the Italian. “No. I did _not_.”

Dressed immaculately in his dark dress ropes, Blaise bore a perfectly composed mien and directed a disarming smile towards her parents. “I thank you for the kind invite, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. I am sorry for the delay and I hope I’m not intruding.” _Oh, you most certainly are!_ Ginny forcibly held back her tongue when she saw him produce a bouquet of flowers from behind his back and offered them to her mum. “For you, Mrs. Weasley. I had an inkling you might favour daisies.”

Ginny was about to burst. How dared he show up here and try and charm his way into her parents’ good graces! Her eyes darted between her parents’ flummoxed faces.

“Well, then,” her dad started. “I guess it would be impolite not to invite you in, after all the trouble you’ve taken.” He moved out of his way as her mum thanked him for the beautiful bouquet.

Blaise inclined his head. “No trouble, at all. I am sorry if my presence is a surprise. I had thought your daughter would have told you?” His facetious tone went over the head of her parents, but not Ginny.

“Oh! Well,” her mum looked between them from above her flowers, “it _is_ somewhat of a surprise, I must admit. Ginny hasn’t told us _anything_.”

“Ah. I see.” Blaise’s perceptive eyes swirled back to Ginny whose lips had turned into a frown at her mother’s pointed tone.

Remembering her manners, her mum slipped into her hospitable self and bustled inside the kitchen. “Oh, think nothing of it, dear,” she addressed Blaise, “you’re more than welcome to join us for dinner. We’ve got quite enough food, I believe.”

Now with her parents out of earshot, Ginny harrumphed under her breath and glowered at the tall wizard standing in her parents’ entrance hall. She marched up to him. “Just what the bloody hell do you think you are _doing_, Zabini?” she hissed.

The corners of his mouth crept into a smile as he leaned in; she could smell the expensive cologne clinging to his collar. “I figured you had to tell your parents sooner or later, and I wouldn’t let you deal with them on your own, Princess.”

_Patronizing sod!_ “You bloody well could have, Zabini!” she growled under her breath. “I never _asked_ for your help!”

“Why, you didn’t have to, _my dear_.”

She sent him a searing scowl. “I was _about_ to tell them. You’re not supposed to be here!”

Unfazed, he met her stare head-on. “Well... now I am,” he countered nonchalantly.

“You... _Ugh_!” Spinning on her heel, she stomped away before she gave into the temptation of wiping that smug look off his face.

As she turned into the kitchen, her mother looked up from the pots by the stove. “Something the matter?”

Ginny stopped, suddenly remembering herself. “Ah, uh, nothing, mum. It’s just...,” she looked over her shoulder where Blaise had materialized in the doorframe, shooting her an expectant eyebrow. She scrambled for an explanation. “I, er... It’s _my_ mistake that I did not tell you before.” Trying not to leak her worries into her appearance, she mustered an embarrassed grin. Just then, her father came back, carrying a book on Muggle history he no doubt intended to show to Blaise. She fidgeted as she carried on. “I had completely forgotten about inviting Blaise because it was so long ago and I had _never_ imagined he’d _actually_ make it.” Subtly, she directed an accusatory glance at Blaise out of the corner of her eye.<strike></strike>

The Italian merely chuckled. _Chuckled_. Uncrossing his arms, he stepped up beside her. “Well, I must admit it was a close call. My plans were changed very _last_ minute.” The roguish glint in his eyes might have been amusement at her expense but there was something in them that belied the lightness of his words. “But, as I said, I’m glad to be able to make it.”

At a loss, Ginny was about to open her mouth when there was a sounding _whoosh_ from the fireplace inside the living room and a familiar voice rang out: “Sorry, I’m late!” Closing her eyes, Ginny wondered if the universe was truly conspiring against her, just as George came sauntering into the kitchen, hands in his pockets. “I was held up at the store and didn’t know if I could make–” He promptly froze at the sight of Zabini.

“George!” She stepped in pre-emptively. “You made it!” She practically hauled herself into her stupefied brother’s arms who caught her belatedly.

There was a beat before George murmured. “So. I guess Ron _was_ right?”

Her head snapped back. He was gazing knowingly down at her then shifted his eyes towards Blaise over her shoulder, dipping his chin. “Zabini.”

“Weasley,” Blaise returned, straight-faced. Nervously, Ginny glanced between them, unable to make out what they each were thinking.

“Well, dinner is ready,” her mum intervened with a smile though there was more than a little confusion to her face. She waved her wand to set the dinner on the table and gestured for everyone to be seated. “Please, sit.”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Ginny complied. Blaise took a seat beside her and caught her anxious look out of the corner of his eye. Leaning in, he murmured, “Don’t worry,” (as if it was enough to reassure her), and then sent her a confident wink. Effortlessly, he segued into his charming persona, turning to her parents with a complement on the food. Ginny kept looking at him dumbfounded. She still had no idea what was going on or why he was here, but she preferred to hash out the mystery _in private_ and not in the company of her entire –

“So... Zabini,” George began once they were all seated, promptly causing Ginny’s knife to slip from her grip and clang against her plate. “Why are you here?”

Everyone became very quiet. Not batting an eye, Zabini unfolded his napkin in his lap before leaning back with a warning smile that Ginny recognized. “Well, now that you’re asking, Weasley...” She held her breath as the Italian took his sweet time responding, “I was invited, as a matter of fact.”

“I see. So, you think my sister invited you because she needs a man to stand up for her?” Her brother countered flatly. Ginny opened her mouth, though she wasn’t sure what she was about to protest; George’s nosy inquisition or the fact that he somehow had guessed the real reason why Blaise was here when she hadn’t. (And another thing: he kind of had a point but this wasn’t really the time or the place).

Her parents looked between the three of them. “What’s going on here?” her mum queried with her dad adding: “Is there something we don’t know, Ginny?”

“Clearly, there is,” George murmured to himself.

_Oh, Merlin. _Already this was going downhill. “Don’t ruin this for me, George,” Ginny hissed under her breath.

“Why? I think they ought to know.”

“It’s not _your_ decision to make.”

“Know what?” Her mum eyed Ginny and Blaise. “I think it’s nice that you two have become friends.”

“I think it’s a bit more complicated than that,” her brother casually rebutted, and Ginny snapped her head towards him.

She leaned forward with a harsh whisper. “What has Ron told you?”

George carried on eating, not bothering to look up. “Only the main facts.”

“Oh!” she scoffed sardonically; ire, hot and liquid, rising in her chest. “The _main facts_? How do you suppose he’s got any ‘facts’ from this at all and not just made up the whole thing from his rampant presumptions?”

“You know Ron.”

“Indeed, I do,” she guffawed mirthlessly. “And _you_ chose the most ‘opportune’ time to tell me that you knew all this time?”

“Well, so did you.” He finally looked up to fix her with a meaningful look. Oh, she loved George to bits but sometimes she wanted to wring his neck for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

“_Ginny_,” her mum interjected sternly. “Would you _please_ let your father and me in on what is going on here?”

Ginny narrowed her eyes at her brother. Seeing that she wasn’t going to receive any help from him, at all, she exhaled heavily, letting go of some of her anger. _Might as well lay it out there._ She felt a brief pressure on her left arm and turned her head, surprised to get an encouraging nod from Blaise.

“I...” she started warily, looking at her parents again. She still hadn’t come up with something adequate to say. “Well, you see... the facts are...” She swallowed, eyes darting between the curious eyes on her.

Her mum’s face turned concerned. “Has something happened at school, Ginny?”

“I...”

“The thing is, Mrs. Weasley – Mr. Weasley,” Blaise aptly came to her defense, “that I have invited her to spend a weekend in Italy with me at my family’s estate this Easter holiday.” His voice was the voice of unflinching calm, and you could practically hear the drop of a pin in the silence that followed as every pair of eyes became fixed on them. Ginny, completely stunned, gaped at the poised wizard beside her.

“I see,” her dad responded after a moment before directing Ginny a small smile. “That’s... that sounds wonderful, my dear. I think you should go. I hear Italy is marvellous around this time of year.” Bless her sweet, absentminded dad.

“_Arthur_.” Molly Weasley was less enthused. She eyed Ginny and Blaise more measuredly. “I am surprised, Ginny. You didn’t tell us anything.”

“I know what you might think...” All she wanted to do was to apologize but she didn’t know what she should apologize for, really. There was a light touch of Blaise’s hand against her own beneath the table and she lowered her gaze, startled by the gesture. He briefly tightened his hold; anchoring her decision to continue. “I haven’t tried to cover anything up, or...or lie to you,” her throat worked, “I _wanted_ to go,” she cast a furtive look at Blaise who met hers with one of pensive astonishment at her admission, “but I wasn’t sure quite yet and I wanted your permission first, of course.” Looking across her family, lingering on her mum’s considering look next to George’s indecipherable expression and her dad’s soft, understanding one, the slight pressure of Zabini’s large, warm hand was oddly comforting. Having never drawn physical or supportive comfort from each other like this before, not without the aiding of generous amounts of alcohol, and though her senses had been both doused and heightened in those instances, it was an altogether reeling sensation _sober_. She wanted to both lean into his touch and twitch and fidget, hyper-aware and unable to settle between the two. Finally, she pulled her hand back. She stared down at her lap, the seconds ticking by torturously slow.

“Gin, hon.” She looked up. Her mum’s eyes were gentle as she took in her conflicted appearance. “You know you should _never_ be apprehensive of coming to us,” she reached out to take the hand of Ginny’s dad like he was a natural extension of that sentiment, and for a brief moment Ginny was fixated by the small gesture even though she had seen them do so hundreds of times before. “If you truly want to go, of course you may.”

Her dad joined in with a jovial smile as he tightened his wife’s hold and looked at Ginny. “Of course.”

Feeling the tears starting to form in her eyes, Ginny gulped them back. “I know. Thank you.” She felt foolish for having been so nervous in the first place. She was sure they had questions, in particular her mum, but for now she was grateful for being exempted the third degree.

She glanced back up just in time for her to see the look her mum sent George as if to say ‘any objections?’; a message he unequivocally received by the looks of how his lanky shoulders hunched forward, studiously concentrating on shovelling more food into his mouth. None, it seemed.

Peering to her left, she found that Blaise too had chosen to concentrate on the dinner; she couldn’t decipher what he was thinking. It was like a stone slinking down into her stomach and she quelled the sigh in the back of her throat. Meeting her dad’s kind, curious gaze across from her, her cheeks flushed. Had he caught her looking at Blaise? She expelled a quiet bout of air, smiling shyly back before averting her gaze. She always underestimated her dad’s perceptiveness. It was so unobtrusive, unlike her mum’s, that she quite forgot he was there sometimes, seeing and perceiving the stuff that went on behind the scenes with all of them.

Returning to her food, they ate in relative silence; once in a while sprinkling in compliments to the hostess on the food. Ginny felt a slow warmth settling within as the conversation eventually fell back into familiar rhythms; George and her dad sharing newfound hobbies and anecdotes about run-ins with weird costumers and members of the Ministry, while her mum half-heartedly shushed them for behaving badly in front of their guest, only making everyone laugh. She didn’t bother to question what had made her family momentarily forget the previous tension. Whatever it was, she was sorely grateful for the distraction; it certainly was a weight off her chest. Even Blaise surprised her as he joined in with an earnest ease to his smirks and caught Ginny’s eye every now and then, as if sharing a secret joke. There was a heat and a laughter there, stoking the low fire in her belly; at the way his sharp eyes and regal features relaxed and softened in the soft hue of the light, the good food and company. As the hours progressed, she felt the warmth spread through her system with every sip of wine and every spare glance he sent her way. No longer indifferent but... _here_.

“Everything alright?” Lifting her eyes, she once more marvelled at the disparity of the Italian who had turned his head to look at her; an attentive inquiry lighting his dark orbs. Swallowing the thick, fuzzy feeling forming in her throat, she nodded blearily and averted her gaze again, feeling his eyes lingering.

“Well!” Her mum’s chirpy voice cut through the heavy atmosphere. “Who’s ready for some dessert? Gin, would you care to help me, dear?”

The timing couldn’t have been more opportune and Ginny quickly made herself scarce from the dinner table to help out in the kitchen. Once in a while, however, she couldn’t help look over her shoulder at Blaise. Although he wasn’t directly pulled into a conversation, she saw him paying attention to the topics flying across the table, smoothly inserting an apt comment or polite question here and there. He carried himself with just the right amount of ease and wit as one saw fit for a wizard aristocrat. If she didn’t believe his ability to play the game before, she did now. He certainly had _her_ convinced. Or, maybe, he was being sincere? Perhaps this was what the real Blaise looked like when he wasn’t posturing or hiding away behind his arrogant mask – but _actually_ having a good time...

“He seems like a nice boy.”

Caught off guard by the comment, Ginny whipped her head around and stared at her mum by the kitchen sink.

“Um, it’s not –” She was about to deny it when she caught herself, her eyes drifting back to the dark-skinned Slytherin, seeing the slip of a wry smile as he observed her dad and brother caught in an innocuous argument. She still didn’t understand what he was doing here but, much to her own surprise, she appreciated his quiet show of support so far. “Er, yes, I guess, he is.”

“How long?”

“Huh?” She flicked her attention back to her mum who had that infuriatingly all-knowing look on her face.

“How long have you known him, sweetheart?” She couldn’t tell if her mother asked out of genuine interest or if she still held some reserve towards their guest.

“Uh, personally; since the beginning of the school year, but I kind of... knew _of_ him before that.”

“I see.” Her mum continued to busy herself with the dishes and Ginny got the distinct feeling there was something she wasn’t saying.

Suddenly feeling the need to explain, Ginny clarified. “Well, I knew him around school, of course; _everyone_ does. You must have heard of the Zabinis as well, haven’t you?”

“I have, but his family lives in Italy, don’t they?”

“Yes. As far as I know, he hasn’t got any family members in this country.”

“That’s unfortunate. Must be very lonely around the weekends and holidays.”

“Oh, I don’t know; I’m sure he has lots of _rich_ friends around,” Ginny mused, darting another glance over her shoulder, suspecting her mum was closer to the truth than she had been in her own presumptions.

“Why, don’t you know yet?” her mum teasingly rejoined and Ginny paled.

“Uhh...” _Drat_. She didn’t, did she? She hadn’t even bothered to ask. But how could she? Unless it was through an insult somehow. Now, _that_ was a sobering thought. But... It was rather shameful to ask about such things and he guarded his personal life with tight-lipped reticence.

“I don’t much care what circles he moves in but I assume he’s picked up his general attitude from somewhere. Mostly, he’s just vain and arrogant.”

“And handsome.”

“_Mum_!” she hissed.

Feigning ignorance, the matriarch shrugged. “Well, isn’t he?”

Ginny made a gruff sound. “He’s hard _not_ to notice, I guess. For _various_ reasons.” _And not all of them to do with his infamous ‘charm’_, she grumbled to herself. “I sort of insulted him during my fifth year.”

“Oh? I think you might have made an impression.” Her mum smiled and Ginny balked slightly at the remark.

“I don’t think so,” she scoffed. “More likely, he just found even more reason to hate me. The feeling was mutual anyways,” she muttered under her breath, vividly recalling just how deep that mutual feeling had run.

“So?” her mum queried. “What made you change your mind?”

“Sorry?”

Giving her a softly exasperated glance, Molly reiterated. “How did you two patch things up?”

Ginny scrunched up her nose. “I wouldn’t call it that, mum. We just happened to be thrown together – _incidentally_ – over the year; through Prefect meetings and what not. And then McGonagall apparently thought it a brilliant idea for us to teach the First Years about Quidditch together. And about Sirius...” Her voice faded as she realized where she was headed. Should she tell her now, or wait?

Her mum’s eyebrows perked up. “Sirius? Well, that’s a good idea, isn’t it, dear? You’re already teaching the young ones about the war, aren’t you? Minerva probably thought you two would make a good team.” She winked, finishing off cleaning a plate. Ginny gaped then snapped her mouth shut, grimacing. “I’m not so sure,” she mumbled to herself.

“Well, either way; it doesn’t strike me any of you hold on to those sentiments anymore.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, just making observations, dear.” She smiled and handed Ginny the plate to dry off. Ginny simply stared at her with a dumbfounded expression. “I think it’s nice that he invited you to Italy with him,” her mum offered as she scrubbed a deep-bowled dish.

Ginny did a double-take. “You do?” It honestly sounded too good to be true coming from _her_.

Her mum nodded and gave a small smile. “I do, sweetheart. I trust you to know what you’re getting yourself into, however.” She turned to face her, her gaze emphatic.

Ginny floundered at the implication. “Er, we, um – we are just friends.”

“Of course, you are, sweetie.” She clearly didn’t give two Knuts about that statement.

Ginny frowned, lost in thought before her mum distracted her by deftly swinging her wand, preparing the dessert to be flown into the dining area.

Ginny turned around and, for a second, she could have sworn Blaise’s eyes had been on her. It might just have been a trick of the light. She shook her head in silent reproach at herself, and swung the ruby curtain of hair back from her face as she reclaimed her seat beside him. Why did she keep dreaming up these odd fancies? She might as well have been back in her First Year, lost in silly, fairytale dreams of Gilderoy Lockhart.

Having barely finished her thought, Blaise leaned in, lips bearing the hint of a smile. “No third-degree hold-up out there, I hope?” His voice sent the small hairs along her neck rising, like a soft, warm, electrical current; almost a purr. Certainly nothing like Lockhart's voice as she recalled. She quickly shook her head.

“All I’m saying,” George clarified from the other end of the table to some unknown question, peripherally catching both their attention and breaking the momentary spell, “is that he had a _specific_ request I couldn’t accommodate.” He received an austere look from the elder Weasleys as he continued unaffected. “I’m really not into those types coming or hanging around my shop, anyhow.”

“Who?”

They all looked over in surprise at Blaise who had spoken. Apparently, he too had taken note of the particular subject of conversation; his tone severe.

George blinked before seemingly deciding it was a fairly innocuous enquiry. “Oh, just some shady guy... One of those types hanging out near Knockturn Alley, coming around asking for dope.” Ginny’s ears pricked up. Blaise frowned.

“George!” her mum protested.

He simply shrugged. “What? It’s a well-known fact.” The matriarch merely pursed her lips, displeased.

“Those poor kids shouldn’t even be there in the first place,” she shook her head, face cast in sympathy. “It isn’t a place to hang out.”

“Well, it is, mum. Face the fact. Some are just too far out to be able to pick themselves up by the bootstraps.”

“At least, they should get help somehow.”

“That’s why they come to me, I guess.”

“_George_,” Molly quietly chastised, “you _can’t_ be serious. You are not helping, are you? _Truly_?”

He shot up his hands. “Hey! _Truly_, I. Am. Not.”

Arthur hummed, stroking his chin contemplatively. “There has been talk at the Ministry of establishing some social programs, but I’m not sure the more conservative members are willing to give our money and charity for cases involving Muggle substances.”

“Drugs?” Ginny piped up, immediately cringing at how dense she sounded. _Of course, _drugs, _stupid_.

“That’s right,” her father smiled genially at her, never one to belittle her spur-of-the-moment curiosity. “Some members have argued the case since the 80s but it was postponed each time, with others arguing it was something the Muggles had invented and thus needed to solve themselves, even though we had several cases of substance abusers within our young Wizarding community already.” Ginny was struck by the solemn turn of her father’s expression and wondered if he had actually come across or known any victims himself while working in his department.

_But that’s silly... Why should he?_

The quietude that fell around the table was soon interrupted by Mrs. Weasley’s voice announcing coffee would be ready in a spell while she proceeded to bustle them all inside the living room and clear out the empty dessert plates.

Blaise quickly pulled her aside, drawing her into the hallway furthest away.

“It might be our guy.”

Bewildered, Ginny blinked up at him. “Hm? What?”

“The guy. The one who has been showing up at your brother’s store.” His gaze became insistent. “He might be able to lead us to the trail from where the drug-ring starts.”

She gaped. “You’re serious?” He nodded, his face _entirely_ serious, as if the evening’s warmth and ease seeping into his skin had completely vanished, like dew before the sun, the moment George mentioned the addict turning up at his store.

_Bloody George_, she grumbled to herself. _And a bloody (lucky?) coincidence._

Faltering, she tried to think of the implications of taking on such a task. They would have to not only track the guy down (they didn’t even know who he was) and then... what? Infiltrate a drug-ring?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Blaise interjected flatly before she could say anything. “But what else have we got? Theo won’t tell us anything.” He pressed. “He _won’t_. Trust me.” There was a resigned finality to his voice and Ginny begrudgingly conceded to his point.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Then what do we do?”

“Well, now we know where to start, don’t we?”

“Yes, but we’re two soon-to-graduate students from Hogwarts, Blaise. We’re not even eighteen yet.”

All she got was an unimpressed arch of one eyebrow. “So? Your point being?”

“That we’re not exactly equipped to this sort of task,” she hissed under her breath. “If it had been on Hogwarts _only_, we _may_ have been able to...’spy’ on someone. But Diagon Alley? Maybe even London? Who knows how far this goes? We can’t just skip school to spy on someone who may or may not turn up! Do we even know what we’re throwing ourselves into here? Shouldn’t we rather alert someone else? Some, I don’t know, professional?”

He just kept regarding her, unmoving, but she had a feeling that some of what she’d said was sinking in; if he hadn’t already thought about it himself.

“Okay. Alright,” he muttered, jaw clenched, and darted a glance above his shoulder to make sure nobody was listening. “But I don’t trust anyone else to do the job for us. Not even your daft brother or your boy-toy Potter.”

Ginny lowered her voice through a growl. “He’s NOT my ‘boy-toy’, Zabini – and don’t say that about my brother! Of course, I trust them!”

Another coolly, incredulous expression. “You’re _sure_ you have earned back your brother’s trust then? Even Potter, I suspect, can’t be too overjoyed by the fact that you’re doing all this with _me_; you pretend-boyfriend,” he jeered none-too-smugly.

Ugh, how she _hated_ when he was right! But... maybe she wasn’t the best ‘persuader’ at the moment.

Pinching the bridge of her nose tiredly, she sighed. This entire evening had left her more confounded than reassured. First, Blaise’s surprise gate-crashing; proceeding to smooth-talk her parents, even smoothing out George’s feathers to some degree, and leaving her all flushed and confused by the end of dinner. And then back to this, again; reminding her how dire a situation they’d left the school in, with them the only ones knowing, probably. “Then what’s your suggestion?” she replied tersely.

Blaise straightened, folding his arms with a pensive frown. “Let me think about it. I think I might be able to come up with a solution.”

She snorted. She couldn’t help herself. “What? No quick thinking this time, Zabini?”

He fixed her with a dark glare.

“Hey, what’s the hold-up out here?” came George’s voice behind them as he stuck his head out into the hallway. “You’re not brainwashing my sister into some scheme to undertake the Ministry, are you now, Zabini?”

“Fuck off,” Blaise responded gruffly over his shoulder.

“Suit yourself,” George quipped with a shrug, eyeing Ginny. She signalled him that she was fine and to not get involved. He didn’t seem to be fully onboard with the idea but nonetheless retreated. “Oh, and I should say from mum that coffee’s ready whenever _you’re_ ready,” he sing-songed as he left, making Ginny scowl.

“I better be off,” Zabini announced, surprising her.

“What? Why?” _Why are you suddenly so averse to him leaving?_

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome, don’t you?” He turned towards the main entrance. “Tell your parents farewell for me, will you? And thank them for a delicious dinner and tell them that I’m sorry for leaving before coffee and without goodbye’s.”

“Well... what about..” she faltered as she followed behind.

He turned around just before reaching the door. “What about what, Weasley?” The shrewd gleam had returned to his eyes as he regarded her.

Fidgeting slightly, she thrust her hands behind her in order to still them. “Um, I was just wondering about... you know, the trip...”

Arching one elegant eyebrow, a slow smirk crept up on his lips. “Oh, you mean ‘our’ little trip to Italy? The one you had so many reservations and concerns about? Or the one you secretly _want_?”

She floundered at the double-meaning in his words. She felt like he could see right through her. And what was she supposed to say to that?

_Well, maybe do as he says and make up your mind, Ginny._

“Okay.”

_What?_

“Excuse me?”

“Okay, Zabini. I’ll go with you.”

_What the actual fuck?_

Where had cautious-Ginny gone and who was this person?! She almost regretted agreeing to it the moment she’d said it, but she couldn’t very well take it back now.

The grin that spread across his sculpted features was positively, infuriatingly, _shit-eating _(even worse was his bad attempt at suppressing it); his eyes glinting with victory. “My, my, Weasley. You’ve finally come to your senses, it seems. Wouldn’t have expected it.”

“Shut up.” She simmered. “I said I’d go, didn’t I? Don’t choke on your massive ego.”

Shocking her by paying no heed to her barb but instead stepping forward, grin still in place, eyeing her with a sparkle in his eyes, he leaned down, so close the warmth of his cologne once again assaulted her nostrils, and lowered his voice. “And I look forward to proving you wrong.”

_...Wrong? Wrong about what? _

Before she could form a response to the enigmatic remark, he had backed away, exiting the Burrow and shut the door behind him, leaving her standing alone, open-mouthed and baffled in the hallway.

She was _actually_ going to Italy. With Blaise-fucking-Zabini. Who’d have thought? Certainly not _her_. She would happily have slapped anybody’s face for even suggesting it. Once upon a time.

She expelled a heavy sigh, rubbing her tired brow. So much for telling her parents the truth. It would just have to wait, wouldn’t it?


	35. An Italian affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And... we are off!
> 
> PS. I’m not a native or trained Italian speaker thus I have resorted to Google Translate and other sources on the Internet to guide me, so please forgive my humble attempt. You’re more than welcome to correct me if they’re wrong. See A/N at the bottom for translations :)
> 
> PPS. In light of JKR’s recent statements, I feel obliged – to my fellow readers and LGBTQ+ allies – to assert that I do not concur with her beliefs and that this story in no way reflects said attitude. 
> 
> As a child of the HP fandom and as a fanfic writer it’s not easy coming out against the author who has created the very universe that has helped shape my childhood and youth and ultimately inspired me to write fanfics. But, on the other hand, the LGBTQ+ community is also something that is close to my heart and though I wish I could separate the art from the author in that sense, I feel I can’t stay quiet in this matter. 
> 
> By principle, everyone is entitled to their opinion and I believe in healthy, constructive debate and exchange of different opinions, rather than instant stan-or-cancel-culture. However, what JKR is advocating – given how powerful her voice is – is truly worrisome and hurtful to the trans-community. 
> 
> Personally, I’m really just disappointed in JKR, given how many hearts and minds her books have touched and opened. That being said, the HP canon was never unproblematic to begin with, in terms of depicting race and sexuality (case in point).
> 
> I’ll refer you to Daniel Radcliffe’s amazing response to her statements, posted on The Trevor Project (Happy Pride Month btw!). Thank you again for stopping by, and I urge you to go support your local LGBTQ+ (and BLM) aid organization. I hope you’ll enjoy this chapter and that you all stay safe in these troublesome times.

* * *

“OK, _wow_.”

Ginny stared, mouth ajar, as they arrived in front of Blaise’s family residence. No, not just residence – a bloody _mansion_!

Looking behind her lay a mile-long, pine-enclosed driveway leading up to the house alone, surrounded by unoccupied, beautiful fields of Italian country in the simmering heat. There must be several _hundred_ acres of land belonging to the estate.

Blaise emitted a non-committal sound beside her, clearly not as impressed by the sheer magnitude of his family wealth as she was, likely taking it for granted. He placed a gentlemanly hand at the small of her back, leading her stunned self towards the main entrance.

She hardly had the time to close her mouth and take it all in before the giant door was instantly opened by what looked like a regular butler.

_Hm, no house-elf?,_ she thought, pleasantly surprised.

“Young Signore Blaise. Signorina,” the butler greeted them courteously.

“Giacomo,” Blaise returned with a nod.

“I hope you have fared well since your last visit, Signore Blaise?” Giacomo enquired in heavily accented English as he held the door open for them to enter into a spacious terracotta vestibule.

“I have, thank you,” Blaise replied smoothly. “Allow me to introduce my escort, Ginevra Weasley.” She gave a timid smile to the stoic butler who did a short bow in return.

“Signorina Weasley. Welcome.” He gestured with a hand behind him. “La Signora awaits your arrival. Allow me to show you both to her.”

Giacomo turned on his heel with perfected precision and they followed a couple of steps behind. They were led through one high-ceiled, columned room and decorated gallery after another, making Ginny’s neck crick from looking upwards and around instead of where she was stepping and, as a result, stumbled every now and then across some of the large sandstone steps. Blaise shot her a wry smile as he gently prevented her from toppling over.

“Watch it,” he joshed sotto voce, just as they arrived to a grand archway leading to an even grander room. The latter opened up to the most enchanting enclosed garden, filled with cool, shaded greenery and a beautiful, trickling fountain in the middle. Here the butler announced them, then stood aside.

Blaise dipped his mouth to her ear again. “I must warn you, my grandmother can be a little –”

“Blaise! _Il mio ragazzo_*!”

A captivating woman of the exact same complexion and poised build as Blaise shot up from a chaise longue where she had been reclining with a newspaper, instantly thrown aside, and came towards them in an elegant flurry of thick, colourful silk. Her hair was turbaned and she wore heavy, jingling gold earrings and bangles, reminding Ginny of the clothes worn by voodoo witches in certain areas of Africa and New Orleans. You wouldn’t know this woman was a _grand_mother just by looking at her.

“_Ciao, Nonna_,” Blaise greeted her less animatedly though nonetheless with unguarded warmth to his countenance that Ginny suspected few ever saw.

He was forced to let go of Ginny as he was enveloped in a tight hug by the Zabini matriarch and Ginny stood awkwardly aside, feeling almost like an intruder in this grand mansion and in front of this striking woman. She watched the two of them exchange a couple of pleasantries in Italian before the attention was turned to her.

“Ah, Gineevrra!” the older witch greeted her warmly, enthusiastically rolling her name in the Italian tongue, stepping forward and clasping Ginny’s hand in her own bejewelled ones. “_Benvenuto*_! A pleasure to meet you! _Il mio_– ah, _scusami_, I am Aurelia. I have so been looking forward to meet you ever since Blaise told me about you, and I can see now why he is so smitten,” she winked, making both Ginny and Blaise shift on their feet and clear their throats. Ginny’s eyes cut covertly to Blaise, wondering what exactly he had told his grandmother about her.

Redirecting her attention to the older Zabini, she tried not to stare too obviously. She could certainly see where Blaise got his good looks from, high cheekbones and all. She was particularly struck by the shrewd gaze that met her and the most striking eye colour she had ever seen; reminiscent of the dark-golden hue that would, on a rare occasion, appear in her grandson’s orbs.

With a bashful smile, Ginny managed to return the compliment, “I... I’m very pleased to meet you, too, Signora Zabini.”

“Ah, _no, no, no_,” the older woman protested profusely, “call me Aurelia, _mia ragazza*_.” Looking Ginny over, her golden-brown eyes sparked. “_Sei bella*!_” she exclaimed and gave Blaise a meaningful look, continuing to say something in Italian that Ginny didn’t understand but which sounded like further flattery. Blaise clearly got it, and though his dark complexion usually did a good job covering his blush, he looked rather discomfited. Ginny bit her lip from giggling. He cleared his throat and averted his gaze in his usual, derisive way when he tried too hard at appearing nonchalant. She had learned to read this act by now, and clearly his grandmother knew it all too well.

“_Tsk_! Blaise, don’t be such a _seccatura_* in front of your old Nonna!” Aurelia chastised in a good-humoured tone and from Blaise’s contrite expression it was clear who held the higher ground around the place. Ginny barely held back a snort. His grandmother quickly gave her all of her eager consideration again. “Forgive my grandson’s _impudenza*_. He’s always like this,” she shot him another pointed glance, “but you must be used to his behaviour by now, _no_?” She smiled conspiratorially, the silky lustre of her enthralling eyes twinkling with warmth, and Ginny knew she already liked Blaise’s grandmother immensely. The latter proceeded to lead her to the large sofa arrangements in the middle of the gigantic high-ceiled room with Blaise following behind. “Sit down, sit down! I want to hear everything about you!” the older witch declared. “Meanwhile I’ll have Giacomo bring you some refreshments and _antipasti_.”

She called for the butler who soon reappeared with a tray of ice-cold drinks. Ginny gratefully accepted one, having quickly realized how big a difference Italian spring was to Scottish spring; she was parched and already perspiring despite having dressed lightly. Or perhaps it was just nerves? Blaise, unsurprisingly, seemed unperturbed by the humidity; sipping, dignified, from his own drink before setting it aside. (_Damn those Italian genes_).

The butler was dismissed after having brought the delicious-looking snacks as well and Aurelia turned towards the two adolescents sitting in the expensive divan across from her.

“So. _Ginevra_,” she smiled at Ginny. “Ah, such a– _bel_ _nome_! A beautiful name! Did you know, ‘Ginevra’ is actually the Italian form of ‘Guinevere’? I know my _Babbano_ _letteratura*_ and English ancestry, you know,” Aurelia winked, and Ginny quelled an amused smile, peering over at Blaise who rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Nonna, _please_,” he sighed.

“Si, Blaise. I am proud of it,” Aurelia staunchly rebuffed. “And do not play _ignorante_ with me, young man. I know you know _Babbano_ history as well.” She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow (it seemed to run in the family), flashing him an added meaningful look to which he responded with a vague groan.

“Yes, _si_, Nonna, I know,” he muttered and shifted in his seat. Ginny had never seen him so henpecked before but she guessed he bore great respect for his grandmother, and, admittedly, it _was_ rather fun to watch him not being able to get away with his usual entitled, blasé act.

“Ah, but I have taught you better than that, Blaise,” Aurelia admonished, looking at him with equal measures of love and sternness. “Especially in front of the ladies and your elders, _no_?”

Ginny suppressed another grin and Blaise, noticing it, shot her a betrayed leer from the corner of his eye which only made it all the more harder to hold back the laughter. Seemingly knowing the fight was lost beforehand, he sighed in acquiescence.

Still, he seemed more at home here; in this house, even in this sultry Italian heat, than in the dark, dank, Scottish castle back home, and there was a genuine note of warmth infusing his voice when he changed the subject to a more conversational one. “I hope you have been well, Nonna?”

Aurelia’s features brightened. “_Si_, Blaise, I have. My hands have been full with my _volontariato_ – er, charity work,” she explained with a gracious smile to Ginny, “And well, you know, everything else has calmed down here since the end of the war. We are all trying to find our places again.”

“And… mother?” he inquired, likely out of polite duty, although his tone was reserved.

Aurelia tsked and gestured disappointedly with her hands. “Ah, no, _mio caro ragazzo_, your _madre_ is not here. She rarely is. Mostly _nella_ _capital*_, _a casa a Portofino*_, or travelling in _Milano_, _Firenze_, or what else, I know _not_,” she all but scoffed with an emphatic wave of her hand, apparently not overly fond of her daughter’s lifestyle decisions either. Then she noticed the hard-set look on Blaise’s face and instantly turned towards him with a soft, sad expression. “_Mi dispiace_,_ tesoro*_,” she said, leaning forward, and laid a consoling, wiry hand on his knee.

Blaise merely harrumphed, as if he wasn’t at all surprised by the answer, and looked away stiffly. Ginny too wanted to provide him some sort of comfort or support, surprising herself, but wasn’t sure how or if he’d even appreciate it – or interpret it as pity – especially in front of his grandmother. Besides, she didn’t even know his mother. Maybe she was like any other snobbish Pureblood witch Ginny had the misfortune to encounter? Maybe she _was_ ‘the Black Widow’ that the Wizarding tabloids so predictably had named her? Not that Ginny indulged or believed in anything written in those trash magazines that some of the other girls favoured. For pity’s sake, she had been dragged through the mud enough already ever since she’d started affiliating herself with Harry. She knew what Rita Skeeter could concoct in that insipid little brain of hers and Ginny wouldn’t believe her as far as she could throw her (though she wouldn’t mind testing just how far that bitch could fly).

She found herself reaching for Blaise’s right hand and squeezing it lightly, reassuringly, feeling some of his tension dissipate. The small action sent her mind back to the dinner at her parents’ and the realization skipped within her chest.

Aurelia’s observant eyes rested briefly on their joined hands, then she drew back, chasing away the initial sadness from her features. Its shadow was still somewhat present every time she glanced at Blaise, knowing he was more affected by the news of his mother than he let on.

“Now, _cari figli*_. Let me hear: How is school-life? Is everything well at Hogwarts?” Her attitude lighter, she snatched a canapé from the table in front of her.

An impatient noise came from Blaise. “_Yes_, Nonna, all is _fine_,” he answered from his reclining position; one arm slung over the back of the couch, and received another subtly berating glare from his grandmother who returned her keen, curious eyes to Ginny.

“Are you happy about returning to school, Ginevra?” she continued in her slightly broken English. “I imagine it has not been easy. I understand you lost your brother and many friends? _Le mie condoglianze_. I am very sorry to hear, my dear.” Surprised by her forwardness and deep-felt sympathy, Ginny quietly thanked her. Then Aurelia’s face quickly took on a slightly more sardonic composure though not directed towards Ginny. “Of course, it has not been easy for Blaise either, but he is mostly to blame for himself. And his _Mama_.” She scoffed under her breath, mumbling something that sounded like ‘_stupido’_, probably meant for the latter.

Blaise sighed heavily but Ginny ignored the remaining tension surrounding the subject and gave Aurelia a friendly smile. “Yes, I must say I am happy to be back at school – despite everything. To see it still standing there and walk the same halls and classrooms, to see everyone... remaining, alive and well, has been – good. Not always easy, but I’m getting there. We all are. I think.”

She managed a trembling smile; more like a grimace, feeling her throat clench warningly. Blaise, who somewhere in-between had moved closer, leaned slightly into her, found her hand and subtly returned her previous gesture. She flashed him a brief if not grateful glance. Aurelia observed their silent exchange with interest.

“I understand, my dear. The First Wizarding War was _orribile_ enough, _ohimè*_!” The older witch shook her head compassionately, missing Blaise’s whisper of a sigh “Here we go again”, and continued, “To think I should witness a second one within my lifetime – no, it was unthinkable back when the first one ended. We thought that – that _creatura,_” Ginny wasn’t sure who flinched first but she instinctively tightened the hold of Blaise’s hand, “had been eliminated. We thought the nightmare was over but we were, what do you say? _Ingenuo_. Naïve. We all were.”

She looked up with both the sorrow and the relief of a lifetime painted in her handsome features, leaning forward to grab Ginny’s other hand in a hearty clutch.

“I could not be more happy and grateful that you young, brave people were able to finally put the nightmare to rest and find each other, despite the devastating cost I know you must have suffered.”

Ginny gulped and nodded, squeezing her hand in return and for a moment sharing the weight of the pain with two people she never would have believed she’d one day be sharing such grave memories with.

“Ah, but enough with the gloomy minds!” Aurelia surprised her by standing up; still holding on to Ginny’s hand, prompting them both to rise with her. She smiled warmly. “The war is over and you are in _Italia_ now! Go enjoy the sun, your _vacanze_ and each other! If you need anything, you can always come to me or simply ask Giacomo, _si_? Blaise –,” and here she continued to talk to Blaise in hurried Italian; some practical instructions by the looks of it. Blaise simply nodded stoically with the slightly lacklustre “Si, Nonna” thrown in here and there, before Aurelia turned to address them both.

“And now_, cari amici*_, you must excuse me – I have business in town, but I’ll be back this evening and until then, feel free to make yourselves at home.” She finally unclasped Ginny’s hand and kissed both their cheeks in true Italian fashion and with a “Ciao!” she was gone in a blur of colourful silk.

Blaise exhaled. “And _that, _ladies and gentlemen, was my grandmother.”

Ginny stared star-struck in the direction Aurelia had Disapparated. “I think she’s wonderful! And so beautiful!”

He merely made a gruff sound and shrugged his shoulders. Simultaneously, they both realized that their hands were still clasped, and they instantly let go of one another.

“Well,” Blaise cleared his throat. “What do you say we’ll get some rest? I’m knackered.”

“Aww, poor you,” Ginny mocked but with no real bite, trying to smooth over the moment of awkwardness, as she turned to him. “Tired of having to Apparate this far?”

He appeared mock-affronted for a second. “Damn right, I am! It requires all my bloody concentration!”

Ginny snickered. “Well, I’m sure you’re not used to do it yourself, and that must be hard, I can see that.” Blaise’s so far preoccupied mien honed in on her. “OK, OK, I give! Show the way, Mister Mansion.”

“Sure thing, _Signorina_,” he drawled, a low, rumbling taunt, as he moved past her. “Right this way. I’m sure our quarters are prepared in the usual guest-wing.”

She froze.

“What?” he yawned, stretching his arms distractedly behind his back.

“_Our_ quarters?”

He peered over his shoulder in question.

“When you say ‘our’...”

His brow quirked upwards. “Don’t worry, Weasley. They’re conjoined rooms. Shared bath, though. It’s an old house, after all.” He stilled and fixed her with a gaze that seemed to see right through her. “Won’t be a problem... will it?”

Swallowing any snarky comeback or misgivings she had about _that_ particular arrangement, Ginny shook her head.

Well, at least, she wasn’t expected to share a _bed_ with Zabini.

She blamed the low buzz of heat at the back of her neck on the hot climate again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: English translation:
> 
> *Il mio ragazzo = my (dear) boy/sweetheart  
*Benvenuto = welcome  
*mia ragazza = my (dear) girl  
*Sei bella = you are beautiful  
*seccatura = nuisance/drag  
*impudenza = impudence  
*Babbano letteratura = Muggle history  
*nella capital = in the capital  
*a casa a Portofino = at home in Portofino  
*Mi dispiace, Tesoro = I’m sorry, honey  
*cari figli = dear children  
*ohimè = oh dear  
*cari amici = dear friends
> 
> A final note: For visualization, I have drawn inspiration for the Zabini Estate from the beautiful Villa del Balbianello by Lake Como in Lombardy, Italy. Just to give you some idea of the splendour of the Zabini wealth as I imagine it (not that you need it yourselves, I’m sure). Furthermore, I mention somewhere in the chapter that the Zabinis own another villa (I mean...of course they do), most frequented by Blaise’s ‘absent’ mother. I saw a picture of this ‘smaller’ but just as gorgeous, yellow-and-pink villa in Portofino, and I thought it fitting for the family to have a residence on the Italian Riviera as well.


	36. Astra inclinant, sed non obligant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Italian-English translation will once again appear at the end :)

Of course, their rooms were gorgeous. Absolutely, painstakingly _gorgeous_.

She shouldn’t really be surprised – by the looks of the rest of the house – but she still had a hard time grasping the magnitude and grandeur of this place. Having come from the accumulated ‘architecture’ and highly eclectic interior of the Burrow, no matter how much she loved it, she couldn’t help feeling excited about spending time in such magnificent surroundings as these. To indulge in the luxury a bit. Just for the time being.

She gasped out loud when she discovered her room came with a giant balcony no less, facing the glittering Mediterranean Sea and some of the olive-green mainland on the other shore.

“This is amazing!”

She instinctively steered towards it. Blaise, instead, threw his long body on the giant canopy bed – worthy of any eighteenth century king or queen – with a load groan.

“I guess. If you fancy all this rococo frippery,” he grumbled, absentmindedly fingering the fluffy bedclothes.

Ginny came back in from the balcony, hands at her sides. “Will you stop being such a sourpuss! Can’t you appreciate your – your _luck_ just a little bit?”

He turned his face from where he laid sprawled on the bed and shot her an unconvinced look. “Hm, I thought you hated it when I acted like a ‘pompous, spoilt, money-filled arse’, wasn’t it?” He smiled wryly at her affronted reaction of being caught by her own words, recalling the episode in question: A particularly biting exchange of words when she had discovered he secretly had been a member of an exclusive poker club for former Slytherin boys at the school. A club that consisted of gross amounts of bets and rather reckless dares subjected to the losers; often much younger students whom Ginny believed didn’t understand what they had agreed to. He had laughed it off when she confronted him, much to her consternation, claiming that it wasn’t as devious as she made it out to be and that the kids were well aware of what they went into, even _thrilled_ by the prospect, though he had eventually promised to stay out of the games for a while.

“Well, yes, but–” she sputtered then threw out her arms, “but that was _before_ I saw what your wealth actually _looked_ like!”

His brow twitched and his face sobered. He raised himself a bit from the bed.

“Huh. I never thought you’d be like the rest of them, Weasley. Didn’t think my money was such an obvious trigger for you.” The words were spoken carelessly, glibly. _Odd_.

Ginny opened and closed her mouth in shock as she stared at his withdrawn profile. Moving a little closer to the bed, she frowned down at him.

”And I never thought you’d think so little of _me_, Blaise,” she responded in a calm, yet beckoning voice, making him look back up at her. “You actually think I came along because you’ve got money?” She sat down on the opposite edge, facing halfway towards him. “I’m just,” she searched for the right word, “slightly _overwhelmed_. Like any mortal soul from a humble background such as mine would be in these surroundings.”

He stared into her eyes a moment longer; some indeterminable emotion passing through his gaze, then seemed to accept her clarification with a silent nod. She hummed, somehow relieved, and suppressed a yawn.

He caught it anyhow, a faint smirk replacing the tautness across his mouth. “Tired?”

She drew back, a little ashamed. “Perhaps a small nap wouldn’t kill me. It was quite the Apparation, after all.”

He chuckled. “When do you start listening to me, _madam_?”

She made a face at him. “But afterwards I _will_ want to see everything!” she quickly inserted, shooting him a half-hearted glare.

“Alright, alright! The madam will have her requests accommodated to the fullest,” he mockingly obliged with no bite and rose from the bed. “_After_ the nap.”

“_Right_ after,” she yawned with less resolve and lay down in the spot he’d just vacated on her bed, her body drowsy from the heat.

He made another softly amused sound and she could hear him moving away to retreat to his own room.

Still, his remark from earlier stayed with her as she started to drift off to sleep:

_‘I never thought you’d be like the rest of them, Weasley. Didn’t think my money was such an obvious trigger for you.’_

Why had he said it? He had sounded almost... upset? So strange, given he usually had no qualms flaunting his money and status to his own advantage. And now, he had been all passive-aggressive about her appraisal of his family wealth.

_Why?_

She tossed and turned in the heat. Her tired brain kept her occupied a little while longer before she finally succumbed.

X

_“Buonasera, bambini*!” _

After their much-needed rest, they were once again ardently greeted at the bottom of the giant staircase by Aurelia who had changed into a new set of flowing clothes, headscarf and glittering silver bangles. Much to both Ginny and Blaise’s surprise, animated voices could be heard nearby, the clinking of crystal glasses, laughter, music and the smell of expensive perfume and heady tobacco hovering in the air.

“Have you rested well? The heat is quite stifling this day – especially if you’ve just come from _Scozia*_, no?” The tall, elegant witch clasped her hands excitedly together. “But ah! I have a surprise for you_, i miei giovani, quelli belli*_! I have arranged for a small gathering this evening; only good friends and neighbours and such, of course!”

Blaise emitted an exasperated sigh. “_Nonna_, must you really throw a party at this moment?”

The bangles around Aurelia’s slim wrist chinked as she waved him off. “Tch! Blaise, _il mio bambino_*; a little party never hurt nobody,” she laughed; the voluminous halls carrying its musical echo, and she continued, unaffected by her grandson’s disgruntled mien. “I want to introduce you to all my very dearest friends!” That didn’t seem to appease Blaise’s misgivings and Ginny wondered why. “And would you know? I found the most _magnifico_ _aragosta*_ at the market –”

Glancing up at Blaise who was looking flatly at his oblivious grandmother prattling on about the various courses she was serving, Ginny nudged his arm. He shifted his slate eyes down to her, some of their hardness dissolving at the sight of her cajoling expression. Heaving a sharp bout of air, halting Aurelia’s chatter, he gave in.

“Alright, _fine_. It doesn’t seem like twenty dragons, much less myself, could stop you,” he groused and remarked pointedly, “_even_ if I very much want to, _Nonna._”

He winced when Aurelia practically tackled him in a bony hug. Ginny had to bite down hard on her lip in order not to give her amusement away. He scowled down at her from over the top of his grandmother’s shoulder.

“_Magnifico! Eccelente! Ah, miei cari amici*! Quanto sei meravigliosa*_!” Aurelia gushed as she released him and kissed their cheeks enthusiastically once more. “And, now, for your clothes! I have the most _bellissima_ dress for you, Ginevra, my dear! I hope you will allow me to gift it to you?”

Astonished, Ginny looked from Aurelia’s keen face to Blaise who bent his head to her ear to explain. “My grandmother has a past in design. It’s easier just to go with it than to resist, believe me.”

Glancing back at her, Ginny smiled politely. “Thank you kindly, Aurelia. You really shouldn’t have but I would gladly accept your gift.”

If Aurelia’s fine-boned features could have brightened any more, it would have become the sun. “_Fantastico_!”

Before Ginny knew it, her casual combo of a pale-blue shirt, grey slacks and white sneakers transformed themselves into a lovely, forest-green cocktail dress and a pair of pointed black boots. Ginny gaped, speechless. The dress was appropriately fitted for someone her age, yet with a mature cut that made her feel oddly bold. _I wonder if Aurelia is just _that_ good or if she put a tiny confidence-booster spell in the fabric for my benefit_, she thought to herself but said nothing.

Aurelia gauged Ginny’s reaction and gestured to the large mirror in the hall. “So? What do you think?”

Ginny’s eyes widened, seeing the result in full perspective. Given that she had worn her hair down and had had absolutely no make-up on before, the subtle change of styling made all the difference: her hair now hung loosely curled over one shoulder and she wore a light coating of make-up; nothing too dolled-up, but simple and complementing of her natural looks.

Aurelia, looking pleased with her work, then waved a hand in the direction of Blaise. His clothes (which weren’t exactly _in_formal; Ginny had never seen him dress casually) were instantly transfigured into a handsome set of evening robes that accentuated his tall, tapered build. Aurelia certainly had an eye for this stuff. Ginny eyed the beautiful stickpin broche on his breast; an intricately bejewelled pomegranate, and wondered if it had any significant meaning to the Zabini family name. It seemed almost too precious, too personal, to be merely a trinket. Before she could ask, however, she was cut short by Aurelia.

“Now, _cari figli*_, come greet our guests!”

With a resigned sigh, Blaise looked down at Ginny, lowering his voice once more. “Sure you’re up for this?”

Ginny shrugged. “Might be fun. Why not?”

Opening his mouth as if to say something, to perhaps warn her what she was in for, he seemed to think better of himself.

“Very well.” He held out an arm for her to take and she sent him her silent thanks, placing a hand in the crook of his elbow. Admittedly, the thought of meeting all the classy friends of the Zabinis felt a little intimidating.

They trailed after Aurelia through one of the grand hallways, lit by enormous chandeliers, and entered a ballroom at the size of the Great Hall. Ginny swallowed soundly and Blaise shot her a meaningful glance; his grandmother _never_ held small parties. Just the sheer number of people in the room took her breath away. All were dressed in magnificent ropes and garments and with stylish hairdos (glitter, white feathers and silver seemed to be the fashion among the rich, Italian community); busy chatting, smoking and sipping champagne. Still, the Zabinis were, indisputably, the best-looking individuals in the crowd. Aurelia stood out in her colourful silk-ropes and with her magnetic persona, soaking up the light like a golden sun. Blaise, too, seemed to be made of another matter entirely and, for one so young, he effortlessly commanded the attention of the room from the way he kept receiving appreciative glances from everyone who parted way for them.

Squeezing her hand slightly in the crook of his arm, Blaise caught her stunned attention, leaning close. “You alright?” The warmth of his body seeped through her; his eyes inquiring. “Sure you don’t want to go? I’m certain my grandmother won’t be offended if we sneak out already – no one has even noticed–”

“BLAISE! MY BOY!”

He was brutally cut off by a booming voice belonging to an opulent, elder gentleman steering directly towards them. Sprouting an impressive beard, and with one monocle in front of the left eye, he held out his arms, spilling half the content of his champagne glass in midst of his enthusiasm.

Blaise winced but quickly schooled his features into a neutral mask. “Piano teacher from my childhood,” he explained strenuously out of the corner of his mouth. She quirked an eyebrow. The idea of a younger Blaise dutifully taking his lessons in classical music cut quite the adorable picture, and she hid a grin as she gazed curiously at the gentleman.

“Come here, young man! I haven’t seen you in a mileage! Is this your lady friend? _Bellissima_! Now, where have you kept yourself, my boy? Not humid, old _Scozia_ all this time, I hope, no?” The older wizard barked a laugh. “Happy to be home in the warmth again, aren’t you?” He clapped a fat hand on the broad expanse of Blaise’s shoulder though he could hardly reach Blaise’s impressive height. “Good to see you! Good to see you!”

Blaise merely pursed his lips in a tight smile, curtly greeting the man who didn’t wait around for any idle repartee but merely made a beeline to the table of food on their right.

Ginny stifled a snicker. “Guess it’s too late to bail now that we’ve been spotted.” All she received was a withering look from her chaperone though he couldn’t muster enough heat behind it to quell her amusement. Quite the contrary.

Just then, Aurelia, who had temporarily left them to greet guests, returned with glasses of champagne and proceeded to lead them into the crowd to mingle – much to Blaise’s inner exasperation.

Ginny put on a brave smile but felt wholly awkward in the fine company of tall, elegant witches and decorated wizards, with their manicured hands, smelling of rich perfume. She felt like she was a rare butterfly caught under a pin; the way they stared at her whenever Aurelia or Blaise introduced her.

They acted civil enough – in that slightly snobbish, reserved and over-polite way you might expect high-class society would be. She couldn’t honestly tell the reason why. She was hardly _internationally_ famous. Maybe they had heard of the Weasley family name? Surely this lot knew every Pureblood heritage in the Wizarding world and would be aware of _her_ particular heritage. In any case, they still treated her oddly coldly and smarmy. Steeling herself, she decided she truly didn’t care whether they were all Pureblood believers or what they thought of her fame or her family.

Finally, the repeated introductions and scrutiny came to a much desired end. Aurelia had spotted some ‘_other dear friends_’, as she put it, arriving at the other end of the room and promptly kissed their cheeks and left them to their own devices once more.

Ginny caught a breath. Another flute of champagne replaced the empty one in her hand by Blaise (snatched from one of the Levitated trays hovering among the guests) and she gratefully accepted it. He helped himself as well and downed its contents like it was a welcomed Potion to rid himself of a bitter aftertaste. Clearly, he didn’t fancy these kinds of parties either which was somewhat of a mind-boggle to Ginny since he put on a damn convincing show of someone who thrived in these environments.

In contrast to her welcome, he’d been met by flattery and high praise. In particular for his role in the war; making him out to be some kind of crafty anti-hero who had been clever enough to pretend to go along with Voldemort in order not to be killed, yet, in the end, turned away when it mattered. Oddly, both Blaise and Aurelia had simply humoured them, or laughed the matter off, quickly moving on to other subjects or people; neither outrightly contesting nor denying these remarks. Maybe they had heard it all too many times before?

And, while there was, undeniably, _some_ truth to it – as she had come to learn herself – Ginny was more apprehensive about the way these people spun the truth to somehow reflect their _own_ moral principles. She’d bet her old aunt Muriel that none of these rich folks had ever lifted a finger to do anything in their lives, except saving their own skin. Supposedly friends’ of Aurelia, they didn’t appear to own a fraction of Aurelia’s vivacious, offbeat personality. Likely they were all just rich contributers to her charity club whom she _had_ to invite.

Ginny sighed. She peered towards the high-ceiled windows facing the night-blue sky with a sudden longing for the quiet, open sea air. The air inside was too stifling and noisy to inhale fully.

“Want to go outside?”

She looked up and met Blaise’s inquisitive gaze. Once more, he seemed to have read her mind, perhaps mirroring the desire himself. She nodded.

They steered towards the balcony through the crowd when Blaise’s entire frame suddenly went rigid. The reaction was so visceral that Ginny snapped her gaze up, about to ask what was wrong, when she saw his hard-set expression and the direction of his gaze. Someone had arrived at the party whom he had _not_ expected to come. Turning her head, she didn’t have to guess twice who that person was:

She wasn’t sure she’d seen a more beautiful witch than the one currently coming towards them, easily rivalling the presences of Aurelia and Blaise. Despite being a good head shorter than the two, the woman held herself tall and proud, and there was something about her aura that made it near impossible to tear one’s eyes away as she glided through the crowd.

So, there probably _was_ truth to the rumours of Veela blood running in the family.

Mrs. Zabini was, contrary to Aurelia, dressed in a sleek, dark dress that fit tightly around her lithe body and with a sharp, plunging neckline showing off her glowing skin. Her haircut was closely cropped to her head; smokey make-up accentuating her large eyes and striking, cat-like features that appeared strangely ageless. Two diamond earrings dangled from her ears, and though diminuative in size, Ginny was positive they cost more than her dad’s lifetime of earnings in the Ministry.

For better or worse, Blaise’s mother inhabited all the qualities of the Zabini heredity; the same cool, regal magnetism and poised bearings. But there was something ruthless about said magnetism. Something Ginny would go as far as call predatory... even fatal. It promised to pull you in and finish you off before you had a chance to realize you’d been enthralled in the first place.

Something she would have been inclined to apply to Blaise as well. She could definitely see the resemblance, physically.

Looking back at Blaise now; taking in the sharp carving of his profile, the hue of his skin against the light; dark eyes, fixed on his mother, flashing with warring emotion, those were not the words she would use to describe him any longer.

She tore her eyes away, flustered by the unexpected redirection of her thoughts.

Just then, Mrs. Zabini came to a stand in front of them, a good distance apart, along with a posse of fashionable people (admirers, no doubt) flanking her. She had her eyes trained on her son, only cursory acknowledging Ginny.

If the room hadn’t been infused by the frolicsome chatter and music from the party, Ginny was sure a sturdy block of ice would have formed itself between the two parties who were now staring at each other in charged stalemate. She glanced between the two of them, anxious about what sort of confrontation was about to unfold.

“Son.” Mrs. Zabini sounded lofty, almost bored, despite her voice being smooth and rich. It was unclear what the woman was actually thinking or feeling as she appraised her estranged son; her symmetric face an imperceptible mask.

“_Mother_.” Blaise ground out the word with practiced glibness, as if it merely conveyed a regrettable, yet unavoidable fact of their relationship.

“How pleasant to see you again, Blaise.” A silken inflection in his mother’s tone belied the affectionate words and held the faintest hint of an accent, yet her English was impeccable, to the point of studied.

Ginny could sense Blaise battled to retain an unresponsive front; every muscle in the arm she was holding straining. At a loss as to how to best appease him, she stroked a soothing thumb across the fabric of his sleeve and felt relieved when some of his tension abated. Still, a muscle in his jaw ticked while he watched his mother like a hawk.

“I would say likewise, mother, but since _you_ are the one who has been absent for most of my grown-up life, I cannot return the sentiment,” he answered with deadly composure.

“_Blaise_,” Ginny pleaded quietly beside him, gazing concernedly up at his stiff frame.

“So,” came Mrs. Zabini’s melodic drawl, completely ignoring her. “You have finally found someone worthy to bring home?”

Ginny flinched. _Really? _This_ is how the woman chooses to greet her son? No ‘how have you been?’ or ‘I’ve missed you’ or ‘did your trip go well?’_

“You should be one to talk, mother,” Blaise cautioned darkly. It was only to rile his mother but, nonetheless, a snippet of hurt cut through Ginny. Maybe he didn’t intentionally mean to put her in the same careless category of conquests as his mother’s many husbands? Nonetheless, it was _one_ thing being disregarded by Mrs. Zabini. Quite a different thing was _Blaise_ doing it.

Just then his arm came around Ginny’s waist in a light, reassuring grip and her stomach flipped. “Mother, I do not think you’ve had the pleasure of meeting my date.” _Oh_. Turning fully towards her, he pierced her with a singular gaze: “Ginevra Weasley.”

Ginny swallowed, staring up at him. He was so close she could observe every nuance of his usually shuttered eyes. There was a flicker of an appeal in them, cleverly disguised as a flirtatious glint to everyone else. She hardly had time to ponder the fact that she could instinctively tell the difference:

Of all the things, the ever cavalier, composed Blaise could possibly fear; _this_ was it. It was why he kept everything under lock and key; not letting anyone _too_ close to the truth. Why he didn’t want to talk about his mother. He didn’t want the reminder. He _hated_ everything she represented given the fact of their familiarity and wanted to distance himself from her actions.

His own mother.

Only _he_ didn’t believe anyone would see it. She could see it in his eyes; he _wanted_ Ginny to believe him, even though he didn’t believe it himself.

Yet, incredible as it was, Ginny _did_ believe in him. That he was not his mother.

Why, she had gone with him to Italy, hadn’t she? She had been introduced to his grandmother, and now, his infamous mother. In turn, he had even introduced himself to her parents and been civil to George.

When all things were said and done, you don’t just do that on a whim, no matter how spontaneous the action seems at the time, if you do not feel something _other_ than distrust and dislike towards a person.

Besides, he seemed to be trusting her...

And she knew this much: He _could_ have abandoned her for his own selfish cause when it mattered the most. When the Dementor attacked and everything escalated from there on. Unknowingly or not, he had not. He had made the choice _not_ to. And it made all the difference in comparison to the impression of his ice queen of a mother.

Dazedly, Ginny was drawn out of her reverie by the soft, golden hue of Blaise’s eyes shifting towards his mother again, turning hard. The latter was still standing there, watching them with subtly calculated interest.

“That is nice for you, I am sure.” The corner of Mrs. Zabini’s sharply painted mouth slid upwards. She did not sound the least bit sincere. Her eyes travelled to Ginny, finally taking her in properly, but all Ginny felt was a cold shiver across her skin from being scrutinized by the witch. “_Weasley_, was it?” The witch displayed a set of perfect, white teeth, the same way crocodiles smiled as they lay in shallow water, waiting for their oblivious prey to walk into their path.

Ginny squared off her shoulders and gave a curt nod, refusing to rise to the bait. “It is.”

Mrs. Zabini made a vague hum, her eyes still trailing up and down her form. Ginny resisted visibly shuddering. “Weasley...” She deliberated the name. “I think I have heard of you.”

_Sure you have_. Breathing in slowly, Ginny forced a smile. “Oh?”

Moving closer, Mrs. Zabini continued her offhand perusal and it was only Blaise’s steady arm around Ginny that prevented her from retreating from the advance. “You are one of those little spitfire friends of that Potter boy who killed the Dark Lord. Are you not?” It wasn’t a question so much as a rhetorical remark.

A collective, stunted silence followed. Apparently, several guests had stopped to listen in on the conversation and now their attention was riveted by the tension in the air.

Ginny stared at the handsome witch returning the stare with a challenging spark. It was only just then she realized that the woman’s eyes were a deep-shaded violet colour. “E-excuse me?”

It seemed to be the exact response that Mrs. Zabini had hoped for. She gave a little, sharp smile. “I thought so. I have seen you in the papers. I read what you had done. Quite the little _heroine_ you are.”

She felt Blaise’s arm tightening around her, the ire coiling in his veins leeching into her.

“If you are implying if I helped Harry, and my friends and family, to take down the tyrannical monster who threatened their lives and the existence of our world, then _yes_, I did,” Ginny countered unshakeably, meeting the woman’s scrutiny head-on.

Mrs. Zabini smirked unkindly and, for a moment, it was a jarring sight. Ginny had seen it mirrored a hundred times on Blaise’s face. However, Blaise was not smirking now; his jaw tightly clenched and eyes flashing.

“What are you getting at, _mother_?” he interjected, a little harsher this time. He saw right through her posturing: She was up to something, as per usual.

His mother laughed, startling Ginny with the sound as it sounded exactly like Aurelia’s, yet all the more worrisome coming from the former. With archly superiority, she cast a knowing glance around her simpering posse. Ginny very much wanted to wring their snooty necks.

“Oh, simply, my dear boy, that I fear you have gone and found yourself quite the self-willed, little catch among the uncultured herd at that awful excuse of a school you attend.” Her purple eyes danced mockingly as she eyed Blaise, then Ginny. “Had I known my own son would one day rub shoulders with _her_ lot, I would surely have insisted you attended Beauxbatons.”

_So, she _has_ heard of the Weasleys,_ Ginny raged on the inside. However, before she could speak up and give the woman a piece of her mind, Blaise took an intimidating step forward.

“Do _not_ make the mistake of presuming to speak to me in a manner that reflects _any_ kind of parental concern. You do not have it in you,_ mother_. Believe me_._” Blaise’s glacial voice cut through the stir and Ginny shuddered in secret glee at how the snobby faces of his mother’s sycophants paled. Blaise didn’t flinch for one second, his face full of beautiful, controlled anger. “I have tolerated enough of your facile attempts to exert dominance over me or my friends through the years. I will have none of them anymore. And _none_ in front of her.”

Ginny swallowed at the vehemence in his voice, her heart twisting as she watched his profile, cut in undiluted disillusionment. His mother was completely out of line but it disturbed Ginny even more that he was used to it, given how infrequently he saw her. There certainly was no lost love between mother and son.

The cool, ageless beauty of Mrs. Zabini reflected nothing other than a cold, insensitive being in Ginny’s eyes. But, for the first time, there was a reaction from the woman; her face clouded over and her violet eyes glittered.

“I see.” Then, as if it never happened, the shadow lifted and her expression melted into a light, beatific smile which was wholly unsettling. “Well, now. None of your dramatics this evening, Blaise.” She tittered overbearingly and everyone within the vicinity, except Ginny and Blaise (Aurelia was still lost in the crowd), laughed along with her, their eyes glued to the way Mrs. Zabini’s attractive features lit up under the chandeliers. She made a sweeping gesture and from the way she immediately commanded everyone’s attention one would have thought _she_ was the host of the party. “After all, this is a festive evening – all for you, my son. _And_ your date, of course.” Her eyes settled on Ginny, who fidgeted uneasily.

Blaise stood back, arms falling listlessly down his sides, features stony as he stared at his mother effortlessly wrapping Aurelia’s unsuspecting guests around her little finger.

No matter what he did – no matter what he said or how he said it – she _always_, somehow, managed to turn it against him and to her advantage.

Could he never escape her?

Wordlessly, he summoned a flute of champagne from a nearby tray, brought the glass to his lips and downed its contents in one swift take.

Not enough.

_Fuck this_.

He promptly summoned the whole, opened bottle of champagne by the coolers, uncaring of the whispers and looks he got, and took a large swig. Then another – until he had downed most of it, meanwhile throwing his mother baleful glares as she continued to draw attention to herself.

He had had about enough.

“Come on. Let’s go.” He turned away and pulled a flummoxed Ginny with him, leaving the empty bottle on one of the tables on his way out.

“But – what, er–” She stumbled a bit as she tried to match his long strides. He grabbed her hand and deftly weaved them in and out of the crowd, careful to steel his gaze on nothing in particular and not to make too much eye-contact in case anybody felt a bit too chatty. He was in no mood for anymore surprise greetings.

“Blaise,” Ginny spoke up. “Where – where are we going?”

“Outside,” he grounded out. “Thought you wanted that?”

“Erm, yes, but –”

The half-hearted protest died on her lips the second they exited the crowded atmosphere of the ball room and got out into the open night air through one of the last doors to the giant balcony circulating the floor. Her mouth fell open as she took in their surroundings, momentarily distracted.

“I could strangle her.” Taut disgust coated his voice.

She stiffened slightly. “Blaise...”

He pressed on, low and solemn. “No, listen: I’m sorry about what happened with my mother in there. I didn’t want to put you on the spot like that. I am sorry for making you feel uncomfortable.” He stilled for a second. “But... you know... I meant it. She had no right to speak to you that way.” Her heart jumped at the sincerity of his voice.

“Nor should she talk to _you_ that way,” she echoed and looked at him, searchingly.

He shrugged, brows knitted together. “I’m used to it.”

“Still...” she reiterated. “She shouldn’t.”

He turned his head and their gazes locked, the dark-brown flecks of his iris flickering.

The fact that she had become privy to a very private incident; something of his life that he strove to keep from most people, other than Malfoy and Nott perhaps, didn’t escape her.

Prying her eyes away from his stirring – and much too intimate – stare, trying to compose herself, she let the moment sit silently between them; soaking in their beautiful surroundings enveloped in the dark, warm Mediterranean night and the sweet smell of cypress.

She stared out at the glittering ocean and exhaled. “I certainly don’t miss the Scottish Highlands right now.”

If Blaise was thrown by the sudden shift, he didn’t let it on. After a beat, he emitted an agreeing hum and moved around her, coming to a stand on her right, peering out across the darkened landscape in quiet contemplation. She sensed the subject of his mother was far from over; some of the evening’s tension still clung to the wide expanse of his shoulders, even as he breathed out, slowly. Swallowing, she watched him furtively as he turned his gaze skywards. She mirrored the motion. It truly was a spectacular sight; the wide-open, starry night sky.

“Did you know,” he said, after a little while, “that my family motto is ‘_astra inclinant, sed non obligant_’?” The words rolled off his tongue with the same sonorous ease as he mastered his native language. In the sweet, hushed air they seemed to take on a life of their own, floating into the dark-green softness of the night, dissolving. Ginny inadvertently shivered, and he continued, tone subdued. “It is an old Latin phrase, meaning ‘the stars incline us, they do not bind us’. Muggles think they invented it, of course, but it actually goes back to Hermetic writings from our earliest kin.”

She looked at him, bemused. He was not in the habit of waxing poetic. She had half the mind to respond with some teasing sarcasm to the fact that it wasn’t some haughty Pureblood phrase that encompassed every past prejudice about him and his family she’d ever thrown at him. However, she refrained, arrested by the moving sight of the sparse moonlight from above and the reflection in the glittering sea below that caught in his dark irises, making them seem otherworldly, even from where she stood beside him. Of course, she knew he was probably more academically gifted than she ever had been – in that frustratingly effortless way he could be – and she continued to find herself secretly surprised by the scope of his wit and comprehension.

He cut his eyes to her, a wry smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “You probably thought it’d be quite different, didn’t you?”

She opened her mouth to reply but, too stunned that he’d beat her to it, no words formed.

Chuckling softly, he turned his head towards the scenery again, leaning forward to rest his forearms against the stone railing. “There is a rumour about it having been changed at one point back in the 1500s, around the time when the Christian Muggles first started their witch-hunts.” Another shudder went through her but, this time, for quite different reasons. “I think the old one said something about... stoicism. That ‘stoicism alone ennobles’ or something other in Latin, I’m not sure,” he mused out loud.

She huffed a bit. “Honestly, that phrase would have surprised me _less_,” she mumbled before she could stop herself.

He blinked and looked at her. To her surprise, a rush of laughter, deep and throaty, left him; the warm brown of his eyes sparking. It was certainly a sight to behold; Blaise Zabini _genuinely_ caught off guard. She could feel the heat spreading through her stomach the longer he gazed at her with that look in his eyes. No sardonic undertones. Just pure and undisguised mirth. It was oddly... intoxicating.

“Well,” she tittered, trying to deflect from the strange sensation, and failing over her tell-tale flush. “It’s just so predictably pretentious of you... isn’t it?”

A slow gleam surfaced in his irises, reminiscent of the shameless flirt that Ginny sometimes forgot he was, though there was a more tender note to it than she remembered. She steadied her breath and cleared her throat.

A husky chuckle escaped his lips and she was relieved when he finally lifted his gaze away from her burning face to the sparkling sea again.

There was this strange quality to Blaise: the playful and debonair intermixing with something sharp and reflective. In turn, she had never had the opportunity to observe him for this long in his native surroundings and there were brief moments when he allowed himself to let his guard down, especially when they were alone like this. She could hardly let herself admit it but it felt like a rare gift to be able to witness around the stoic Italian. To think she would ever find herself in the position of regarding the Italian’s presence _companionable_. But... it was. The tension of being with him out in the open felt new. Nothing she could define, for sure. But it felt tangible.

Peripherally, the music from inside the ball room changed. It was a rather enthralling piece, one she hadn’t heard before, and for a moment she was swept away by its musical notes.

“Care to dance?”

She couldn’t have been more astonished by the hand Blaise held forth. She looked up at him, questioningly.

“I didn’t want to ask you inside since we were already being scrutinized by everyone,” he explained, his deep-brown eyes trained on hers, a faint, unreadable smile playing across his lips. “I guessed you wouldn’t like being put on the spot any further.”

She swallowed audibly and took his hand, transfixed by the warmth enveloping her as he turned towards her, closer than he already was, and placed his arm around her middle, loose yet steady; slowly moving them in step with the calming music.

Letting herself be lulled into the rhythm of the music and the dance, she tried not to think about or unravel her tumultuous emotions tied to the owner of the body presently holding her.

She could sense his magical aura; rolling and merging with hers, and shivered, quite naturally. He looked down.

“Cold?”

The reverberation of his voice rumbled through his chest and she felt the briefest brush of chin at the top of her head, his warm breath caressing her neck. She shook her head, despite seeking his heat, almost involuntarily, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. She couldn’t tell how long they moved to the music; she certainly didn’t realize when the music from inside stopped and complete stillness, except for the buzzing cicadas and the gentle lapping of ocean waves, settled around the place.

If not for the sudden, ominous announcement coming from inside the ball room, pulling them abruptly apart, and with a burning question crushed in the back of her throat, she briefly wondered what his answer would have been, had she asked.

_Why me, Blaise?_

_Why did you bring me here?_

But it was too late now, wondering what would have happened or not happened there on the balcony; the unspoken question drifting away into the heady seclusion of the Italian night, and a new, bone-chilling, magical atmosphere descending upon the place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: English translation:
> 
> *Buonasera, bambini = Good evening, children  
*Scozia = Scotland  
*i miei giovani, quelli belli = my young, beautiful ones  
*aragosta = lobster  
*Grazie mille = thank you very much  
*miei cari amici = my dear friends  
*Quanto sei meravigliosa = how wonderful you are  
*cari figli = dear children
> 
> Furthermore, I like to imagine Mrs. Zabini to look a bit like British actress Tracy Ifeachor as seen in the TV show The Originals. She definitely stunned me the first time she appeared on the screen and, to me, would be a PERFECT fancast for Mrs. Zabini.  
  



End file.
